The Witch's Waltz
by Onlyndreams145
Summary: What happens when the child that the Professor left behind goes looking for him after the strange events in Transylvania? What happens when that child has secrets of its own? My take on what could happen next
1. Logic

The Bat

By: Professor Wolfgang Abronsius

In dedication to my little one. Through my dedication may you see the beauty within logic, the divine in truth and the truth within reason. I pray that this works reminds you dear one that everything can be logically explained and resolved, even your nightmares that started me on this journey. As for now, sleep well little one and remember…logic, logic, logic!

Evermore, your devoted Papa

 **Konigsberg 18-something or other**

It was snowing the day it happened; beautiful white snow drifting like the promise of his career at the university, fresh, clean, each path he could take his young bright-pupils on differing from the next. Very, very promising. He had new and inventive ideas unlike the other professors in his field with their methods so ancient and close to witchcraft that it was comical—there was no logic in it!

Wolfgang let the crispness of the night fill his nostrils with a heightened since of life as the street lamp sputtered a warm orange hue over the street and steps of the university. Some of his students and other learned men clasped him on the shoulder with praise as they filed out into the cold, homeward bound towards wives, and firesides and other nonsensical things. Lectures had run late that night.

He scoffed at them; he had a muffler, a good room at a boarding house and a small collection of books written by some of the worlds finest minds. Who could want more? Having a wife seemed to squander such simple joys, constantly gabbing about non-important matters when trying to undertake the simple pleasure of reading, never having rational expectations, and limiting freedom. Why, not nine months ago did some of these lads partake in having a healthy draft with him to discuss Plato and other matters after lectures…all married now alas, shackled?

Not that Wolfgang Abronsius didn't have many offers; he was young, with thick dark and wavy hair, a cleft chin and of impeccable build….as he often noted of himself in the mirror. Oh yes, many girls wanted him. Why, not nine months ago he wooed a rather tasty bar wench to prove to his collogues that intellect was more seductive then bulk. The encounter as delightful as it was, was purely scientific….and proved to be successful.

Professor Abronsius went to his lofty boarding house with hat atop his head, cane working against the cobblestone street, tilting the brim slightly to by-passers before he reached his stoop, digging in his coat pockets for a key.

At the slightest shift of his foot, there was something solid at his toe. A covered wicker basket? An eyebrow raised….it was wine and cheese from his neighbor! Yes, it had to be! He had asked his neighbor to procure him some…it was only logical.

With a shrug at base logic, he took the basket and bundle inside, the note atop it drifting away carelessly in the wind.

He disregarded the basket carelessly on the table, and went to light a candle to shed some light on the room. Much to his great surprise, setting by his usual candle was a fine bottle of wine and cheese with a note from his neighbor Gunther, regarding the sum he owed.

This was odd… why would he need two bottles of wine and two cheeses? And why not leave them both in the house if you were going to go to the trouble of breaking and entering…and my God why was that basket making such noise?

Then it occurred to him….baskets didn't make noise. The only creature that emulated such a noise, such a piercing shriek was…Oh no! with slow deliberate steps he made his way over to the whining basket, the blue coverlet swaying like waves upon the ocean; it was the first time that he; Wolfgang Abronsius, a man of logic believed in demonic forces…or at least, hoped that he did…

With a heart thundering like….well, thunder he stripped the basket of its cover, the fleshy legs and arms of the thing wiggled with abandon a moment making the young professor jump back a foot. The yowling got louder at the unveil filling every inch, every corner of the wood paneled room. He covered his ears.

"A baby!" he exclaimed as if the findings were something new. He came to his senses a moment later as the crying had died down at the sound of his voice. He inched closer again and repeated, somewhat in awe this time. "A baby?!"

Even as he said it he couldn't believe it; but there it was before him. A perfect human specimen, ten digits, ten toes, spine, skull and quite the pear of lungs. Pink, chubby and very real.

The young man scooped the child up into his arms and the crying started again, he spun full circle in a tizzy, unsure of why he had picked it up in the first place. It was a wonder that it didn't freeze to death.

"What do I do? What do I do?" he panicked. He couldn't think with all this crying. "Please stop! Please stop! Be logical!" he tried to reason with the child, which only resulted in more screaming, from both parties….

"I don't know what you want! I don't know—" another full circle of panic and bewilderment, even if he could figure out what it needed—like food—how could he feed it? He was a learned man, infants were women's business. This wasn't in his training, this wasn't even in the plan…. He didn't even know where this babe was from!

He begun to pick up random things in the room and offer them to the child to get it to be quiet just so he could think, to no avail.

A sudden bash of wet parchment against the window made him jump and he went to see, it was the discarded note that had been resting on the bundle when he picked it up, come back like a slap of fate. He was able to read vaguely through the pane a vivid recount of a night he spent with a barmaid not but nine months ago…that was one mystery solved. The yowling, screaming thing in his arms was a product of himself.

But that didn't mean he had to keep it! There were foundlings every day at the orphanage, this could just be another and he could go back to his logical life, as it was, right? That was logical after all right?

He grabbed the blanket to wrap the child back up, but fatally made the mistake of looking down into its face for the first time. A perfect human specimen, ten digits, ten toes, spine, skull…but looking more closely, it was so much more than that… the baby had big cornflower blue eyes that met his, a little drawn bow shaped mouth, tuffs of dark hair just like his, cheeks to rival any woodland chipmunk, and above all a little soft-as-rose-peddle hand that his finger fit perfectly into, a small squeeze, it had quieted now, drifting to sleep.

He withdrew from the door and made himself sit down, babe in arms. This child, his child wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

After the child had been settled, with a proper bottle from the upstairs neighbor, Professor Abronsius could look at the situation more logically. How grand it was to have an heir! What an opportunity this! a clean slate, a mind that he could fully and wholly mold from scratch, another brilliant mind to be! And he could start early!

He begun dreaming of the noble prizes that his son and heir was going to win, all the philosophical discussions to be had between him and the next Abronsius ignited him! The boy would need a fine name to accompany his distinguished last!

When Wolfgang was sure he had it narrowed down between "Aristotle" or "Ludwig" the child alerted him that it was time for a change. Wolfgang went to the task with glee with all his future schemes in mind.

But there was another shock to come. He did a double take, and even went as far as to pick the child up and look for the missing parts as if they had fallen off like the cogs on a disjointed clock somehow. And the missing genitals indicated that this child would not be a "Ludwig" or an "Aristotle" in any case.

He groaned slightly. "You are not even a son! Now what am I going to name you?" all name ideas, like his high hopes for the son he obviously didn't have went out the window.

He cradled the babe in both his hands and she looked at him with those eyes, such pretty eyes that already had a suggestion that they were destined to turn a lovely shade of green. She was going to be warm and affectionate, he could tell. With each passing moment he looked at her, it bothered him less and less that she was a girl after all. She was already so gentle and sweet…he could still mold her mind to love logic as much as he after all.

But, what to name her?... he felt bad, he could not now think of a name.

Perhaps to name her after a queen wasn't too presumptuous. After all she was the daughter of a learned man.

"Brunhilda Abronsius!" he tried aloud, and as misfortune would have it….liked it and gave it no further thought.

That was her name… Brunhilda Abronsius.

* * *

 **18-something 6 years later**

Things didn't seem to get much easier for the child from her christening. With such a 'stout' name came with it no traits to redeem herself at first glance. She had no mother to see to that fact, only a learned father who saw pretty, long hair as a frivolity to which it was much more sensible to have short, boyish hair to avoid unnecessary tangles and self absorption in grooming. Sensible skirts with blouses that were a size to big, hanging from her slight shoulders revealing a dark disconcerting wart on the back of the right one. In her mouth, one unruly adult tooth growing over a stubborn baby canine that wouldn't fall. Skinny, long-limbs, so pale that sometimes in the moonlight her skin seemed to have a slightly odd tint of green to it. Poor child, but you would swear a sweeter, purer soul never lived.

One fine afternoon at the university Professor Abronsius was lecturing on the theory of Dark Matter, his mind on the crisp green apple resting on the corner of his desk, hunger brewing within. He had not eaten all morning, getting Brunhilda off to school had been a chore of chores. She would have rather been at the university with her father for many reasons.

*CRUNCH* and by the sound arising from under his desk and the now absent piece of fruit, and the shocked faces of his students at the sight of the little hand that had snatched the fruit, that was exactly where she had ended up.

The professor paused, pulled back his chair slightly and glance down into the cave like place under his desk and the green eyes that looked up at him from there. Little scraped up knees drawn up to a little flat chest. The other children had been tormenting her again, he couldn't really scorn her for running away. "Brunhilda." He managed calmly, stretching out his hand. "May I have my apple back please?"

"Yes Papa." The girl relented, handing him the fruit. This was a normal occurrence and he was slowly learning to just let it be. If he had succeeded in one thing it was that his girl had a love of knowledge, and was quite smart, if not imaginative, she helped him grade papers sometimes in the evenings, catching things he might have missed. The students always knew which papers were graded by her hand because of the art that decorated the corner, in which she was quite skilled.

and if she had taught him anything it was that knowledge and logic were to separate entities.

After the lesson, he had called his daughter to his knee and asked her why she was neglecting her duties to the schoolmaster and other students her own age.

"The schoolmaster does not teach me anything that you have not taught me Papa." She said simply, adoringly. "Here, at the university I learn new things. And the other little girls at the school call me ugly and get their brothers to throw rocks at me. Am I ugly Papa? Truly?"

He swore he saw the entirety of her soul reflected in her eyes at that moment; the girl who had never had a harsh word pass her lips, the girl who loved to sing loudly with her whole heart, the girl who read the worlds best books and would offer her last crumb to any hungry creature. The pleasant disruption to his quiet life.

He ran his hand against the prickly hair and jetting cheek bone, and there was a sense of pain that he had done wrong by her…maybe if her hair was longer…

In one swift motion he had stood and balanced the girl on his hip to carry her out into the street and to the tavern for lunch, the weight of her head lolling slowly to his shoulder. "What you need to understand Brunhilda is that beauty is simply a concept that each individual defines on their own standards, its irrelevant."

"But am I beautiful to you Papa?" she pressed.

"Very beautiful, my little one."

"And you are very beautiful to me Papa! And I am satisfied." She admitted, and he hugged her close.

As they walked on they passed a horse drawn cart carrying things recently won in an auction for various buildings in the square. At the sight of one of the merchandise her little head shot from its resting place like a curious animal and much to her father's annoyance and fear of dropping her, wiggled from his embrace and started toward the golden framed portrait with a look in her eyes he had never seen before..

Wolfgang pushed into the crowd where his daughter had so abruptly and rudely disappeared to. shoulder, to shoulder with strangers, he was looking at the back of her, staring up at a portrait of a blonde nobleman of some sort, 13th century perhaps, reproduction, nothing to leap out of his arms for certainly.

He went to take her hand.

"Oh Papa!" she gawked dreamily. "Papa who is he? He is so handsome!" she was breathless.

"I don't know."

She turned to him a moment pouting, disappointed. "I thought you knew everything Papa!" she half demanded, resulting in chuckles from onlookers. Wolfgang rubbed the back of his neck with a flush. "Erm…come away from that Brunhilda."

"That, is the Graf Agustine Von Krolock. Count of Austria." The driver of the cart answered, chewing on some straw.

Her eyes beamed. "Count Agustine!" she repeated before taking her father's hand in a daze. "Its like…its like he's smiling at me Papa."

"Yes the brush strokes are very nice dear." He said hoping this would spur her away from such ridiculous behavior. On the contrary, she stepped forward to address the cart driver. "Pardon me but where is this portrait going?"

He pointed across the street. "In the library, you can see it whenever you want miss."

"Thank you!" she replied with a new resolve of just where she would be spending her time from now on.

And so it began… a sudden, new interest in everything, girlish whims and desires to expand their scientific collection to include poetry and love stories. Fantastical fantasies and endless speculations about the Count who's picture she made sure to go see every day. His name somehow made it into every single conversation without fail…or logical reason.

At night Wolfgang could hear his daughter through the bedroom walls introduce herself to know one as "The Gräfin Von Krolock" and when looking inside saw her curtsey before the mirror in her nightgown with the biggest, sweetest smile he had ever seen

… One of the funniest incidents was when he dared to call the man "Agustine" and she looked at him with all seriousness and offense and said half scolding "Oh no Papa! Only I can call him Agustine, he is Graf Von Krolock to you." He did not contend to argue.

He was going to tell her… explain to her logically that the man in the portrait, the man in her dreams had died many, many years ago. That the blonde nobleman was not at any time going to ride into their small town in Konigsberg on a white horse and carry her off into the sunset. He was going to tell her…logic…logic, but when he looked down at the sleeping form, one leg hanging from the covers, bruised knee, a book of sonnets written by The Count himself sprawled across her chest.

He thought of the look in her eyes when he would tell her. the girl had so little in her life to be joyous about, he couldn't take this bit of happiness away from her too, even if it was only fantasy. So carefully he went out in to the garden, picked a single, splendid white rose and left it in the book on her bedside table, blew out her candle, tucked away the wayward leg back under the coverlet, kissed her brow and let her dream.

"Goodnight, sweet Countess." He whispered in her ear, and she smiled in her sleep.

Sometimes…love knew no logic.

* * *

 **four years later**

"Okay Alfred." The girl started, taking a bracing stance. "Punch me in the mouth as hard as you can. I'm ready!"

The lad across from her wrinkled his face at the idea and tried to protest at this scheme, anticipating that it would end like the last two in failure or getting caught. But he had to admire her bold ideas and blunt relay of them, more importantly at the girl's tenacity to get that stubborn extra tooth out of her mouth.

She didn't even flinch at the idea of physical pain to accomplish this goal of hers, she just stood there hands on hips, surer and braver then most boys their age, let alone girls.

Alfred faltered. "Are you sure this will work Hildie? I don't want to hurt you." The boy lowered his red velvet covered arm and met the girl's green eyes.

Brunhilda dropped her chin gently. "Of course I'm sure Alfred." She assured putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "I did all the calculations last night in my room and I made an herbal concoction to take away the pain for after, just there on the table. Look, last week I saw Ron punch Howard in the jaw in the square and his tooth came out, and they weren't even trying... We are!" she said more confident and calm as ever, whispering somehow over the other voices in the library.

"But, I'm not supposed to hit girls!"

"Then don't think of me as a girl for the time being."

The boy with golden curls and sunny blue eyes nodded, picked up his arm again and wrenched it back, tongue perched in the corner of his mouth in concentration as the girls heavy, dark lashes fell gracefully back down over the emerald orbs in preparation for the blow. "Okay, one…two…three…"

Luckily, both parents; Frau Swarts the Liberian and The Professor had caught drifts of the twos conversation and was able to interfere before the knuckles could make contact with the jaw, unfortunately for the Professor that interference was at the expense of the lad's fist hitting him square in the groin, making him fall to his knees.

Brunhilda was mortified and took his arm. "Are you alright Papa?"

He managed to look up at her and sigh, and with what little voice he had gasped out, shaking his head. "You're the reason my hair is starting to turn gray." He let her help him back up to his feet as he coughed. "Sorry Papa."

The portly Frau Swarts avidly scolding her son for such an attempt, despite him crying because in the act of punching he had bitten the tip of his tongue. The girl quickly retrieved the herbal concoction she had meant for herself passing it off to the boy. "Here Alfred, drink this it will help!"

Frau Swarts swatted it out of the girls hand. "Away, away with your witch's brew Brunhilda Abronsius. Its your witchcraft that makes my son behave this way, stay away from my son!" and with that Frau Swarts dragged her slender son away.

The girl knelt down using her apron to mop up the spilled drink, her father looked at her concernedly eyebrow arched. "Don't worry, this isn't the first time she's warned him against me." she explained evenly. "He will see me again, I'm sure of it."

A look of sternness crossed her father's face. "Brunhilda, what were you trying to accomplish?" he pressed.

"I'm trying to get this tooth out so the other one can drop down." She said still scrubbing.

"You know the midwife said it would come out in good time."

"Well I think the midwife is wrong—"

"We did research to back it up—"

"Then I think we're wrong!" she snapped suddenly.

Her father was taken aback, she dropped her eyes suddenly in shame and something else.

First, an attempt to make rouge from plants, then trying to get her hair to grow faster now this. Wolfgang knelt beside his girl and tried to meet her gaze that was fixated on the floor. "What is it dear one?" he coaxed. "You have been acting so strangely, you are normally so sensible in these matters."

At that moment two young people passed by the window conversing about the village festival that was going to take place that night, arm in arm, male and female. Then drawing his attention away was a small almost inaudible sob. "Its nothing Papa, really." She managed.

"If its about the dance…you can go with Alfred!" he tried. In hopes that the liberian's son who she had made friends with some years ago after her many visits to stare at the portrait of the handsome graf would be of some comfort. Her only friend.

"His mother won't let him go."

"Then I'll go with you!" he announced. "We will make a study of prepubescent interactions together, and then for fun write a full report on our findings!" surely, this would cheer her up.

"Oh Papa." She sighed, shaking her head. "No. just no, I want to go and dance, and you hate dancing." She started sobbing again. "Oh why can't I be even the least bit beautiful?"

"You are beautiful!"

Her eyes met his with all earnestness, tears lingering on her cheeks. "You are the only one that thinks so Papa, you always have been." She whispered, reaching for his hand to help coax him into realization. "I am not beautiful."

This truly made him angry. "Now you see here!" he started wrenching her up by the arm. "My daughter does not feel sorry for herself! MY DAUGHTER is a brilliant mind and a beauty to boot and don't you dare forget it again!" in his anger a blind illogical thought passed his lips. "What do you think the Count would say? You think a man like him leaves roses for just any girl especially one who is not a beauty! Phewy on you!"

He stopped himself, he had been swept up in the fantasy of leaving her roses as the Count Von Krolock for so many years as she slept that somehow it had just become a part of his life and distantly real, the joy it had brought her had been real enough.

Brunhilda paused and looked up at the painting and sighed; even if more recently she had stopped believing in such miracles, had caught on to the game, the fact that her father was willing to keep up the façade for sake of her love and happiness, was enough to spur a faint smile to her face. "I suppose Agustine would be disappointed in the way I've been acting." She sighed.

"Highly." Her father agreed.

She closed her eyes and thought of both men that she had loved in her life real and pretend, they merged into one and she could almost feel a palpable touch upon her hand from the latter; her Agustine who kissed her in dreams, but the former had made her love the latter even more, and vice versa, The Count was their connection beyond logic. She opened her pale orbs again and found the picture still smiling at her, then turned to her father. "What a wonderful man he is." She sighed with a secret meaning and gratitude to her father…whose hair did look slightly greyer somehow.

"Let's go home Papa." She took his hand and let herself be led away, all was peace again. Or so they thought.

Then the nightmares came…..

* * *

It had happened the night of the festival. Brunhilda had stayed in the library with a new book making notes for herself on new herbal mixtures, her newest fascination, against the moonlight and against the moonlit window only her skin had the palest tint of green hardly noticeable like a green stained glass lamp on porcelain, it had been that way sense she was a baby every full moon and the wart on her right shoulder always had a dull sort of ache to it several days before. It was nothing surely. Because her father told her so.

But oh she always felt so energized by the light of the moon or a vast body of water, it ignited her, released her. made her want to dance and sing; but all girls wanted to do that, right? And with the music drifting in she couldn't help but spring to the violin music in an airy step, feeling like she could fly. Despite her appearance she was very graceful when she moved, and if she sung even lowly, in a hum as she was now you had to stop and listen. Her voice was haunting, enchanting even…

The moon had taken the melancholy from her heart.

Suddenly the door bust open with tremendous force, making her jump and hide behind a book case peering out. A group of burly men with clubs and wooden stakes hanging from their belts filed in thinking the place had been abandon for the night.

"Lock the door!" said the leader carrying a sack… from her vantage point it looked like the sack was moving, like there was an animal inside. Brunhilda sank to her knees, watching. Without opening the sack the man put it on one of the tables and after a moments hesitation withdrew the club from his belt and delivered several hard blows to the bag that made an awful sound. Brunhilda covered her ears and jolted her head away with tears of pity, there was an animal inside.

"Is it dead?" one asked.

"What a stupid question!" the little girl thought regaining herself and crawling back to the edge of the book shelves where she had been spying. She remembered that aside from her father the men of Konigsberg weren't particularly known for their brains. Of course it was dead, it had to be.

"Open the sack." Said another, and it was done. She couldn't believe her eyes. it was a bat! It was alive and it was a bat! And…it looked at her? directly at her for help, but discreetly like a human would…. That was…impossible. It continued to look at her. Another few hard blows that the creature managed to dodge but still made her flinch. After a moment they had pinned its wings with hunting knifes, now it really shrieked.

The men then begun to pour over blood curdling tales about blood-sucking monsters, and werewolves and witches that frightened her to the very core. These men were hunters of such things.

Even so the bat looked harmless in her eyes. " if only I had something to throw." Brunhilda thought, and just like that one of the books, from the highest shelves fell with a loud clatter drawing everyone's attention, including hers away. She covered her mouth in surprise. One of the men went to investigate.

"Again…" she thought ardently. "Do it again."

Another book fell closer to the man's head.

"Again."

Three more!

"Again!"

The whole library was quaking now with entire books not only falling but flying at their targets. Brunhilda was awe struck. How was this happening? Eventually the men had unpinned the bat and begged for mercy before running away.

She thought to do the same, afraid of many things now she bolted towards the steps jumping over messes of books in her wake. The bat suddenly called to her and she turned with a gasped…now it looked like it was ringing its hands and shrugging its shoulders in coy thanks, making cooing noises….Okay, it was official! she had to get out more!

She tilted her head and met its gaze. It opened its mouth and showed two giant fangs and sent her running again

After that there were no more sweet dreams about the Count or anything else for that matter only terrors, night terrors that gave her cold sweats and made her scream. Her father ever the logic told her to write it off as logically a bunch of dumb drunkards who had taken to beating a poor dumb animal for sport and superstition, that left her in shook.

but she couldn't try as she might she couldn't her hands shook whenever she thought of the books. And that it felt like her doing.

After a few weeks of sleepless nights the Professor had struck up a deal with his daughter to write a book of all facts on bats to disprove any fantasies and set her mind at rest…he blamed himself partly for her vivid imagination.

Thus, after months of research, the book "The Bat" was written and published.

* * *

The Professor's next literary endeavor was to disprove the theory of witches. This was not so much for Brunhilda as it was for the fact that he had liked writing a book on untapped matters, and undoubtedly being right about them.

This task was bringing him to the highlands the height of all superstition as far as witches went. Brunhilda had begged to come with him, still a little too shaken to want to stay in the village alone, even being fourteen now and having Alfred as a constant companion. She was allowed to go.

The fog rolled onto the moors as the mist fell in upon the docks when they came into port, the girl clutched her wrap tighter around herself as she stood on the docks alone waiting for her beloved father to collect the luggage. This was a bad idea… her shoulder and wart were throbbing because of it. There was something in the air here, something like she had felt that night… she had never thought to want to return to Konigsberg so strongly.

She looked up and saw the glimpses of the incoming handlebar mustache that her father had recently been growing out at the stern of the ship and felt a slight ease wash over her…as soon as she was with him everything would be fine like it always was.

"Spare a wee trifle for a hungry old woman dearie?" the voice came out of the fog, low and raspy right next to her, Brunhilda turned and looked down at the shriveled old woman with her out stretched hand and her black cat.

The young girl was not unnerved by the woman's haggard appearance, bad teeth or thick accent but strangely moved with a sort of familiarity that she had never felt before. She reached carefully into the folds of her dress and withdrew all her coins, her hair now long enough to sway in the wind and brush against her cheek.

"Its Russian, I'm not sure how much good it will do you here, but you can have it all the same." Brunhilda said kindly passing the currency from her hand to the hags and feeling something like an electric shock upon contact. The hag's eyes brightened.

"What be your name lass?" the hag asked pointing her long nose upward to examine the girl's green eyes.

Her lips parted softly. "Brunhilda of Konigsberg." She answered half dazed as the woman continued to hold her hand.

The hag shook her head. "Too harsh for such a pretty face on such a bonnie lass. Yer name should be McKenna or Rose; because yer gonna be a right pretty one, ye kin? I can tell."

She blinked. "A pretty what?"

"Dinna ye know what you are lass? A right bloomin one at that I could sense ye from miles away on the horizon."

"You have a wart like mine." Brunhilda noted suddenly, with a finger out stretched to touch the wart on the hag's right cheek unbeknownst to her, she was fully entranced now.

"Aye, many of us do. Dinna your mammie ever tell you about the ladies with the warts?"

"No…I-I never knew my mother."

The hag beamed holding out her long, talon hand again, her eyes like the moon. "...Would ye like to?"

* * *

Professor Wolfgang Abronsius dispatched the ship, finally; already jaunting down notes about the backdrop of his next novel. Ready to join his daughter. "Sorry to leave you waiting dear one, I… " when he looked up there was no one there. Nothing but a discarded wrap of a young woman and the wind.

"Brunhilda?!" he called searching desperately. "Brunhilda!' he clutched her wrap to him.

She was gone.

Many people back in Konigsberg told him to write it off logically, that his young teenaged daughter had run away never to be-seen or heard from again. But he knew, he knew her love would not permit her to run away from him on her own free will. In his grief the Professor's hair did turn a stark white and became wild. They said he had gone mad in his morning except for little Alfred…discrediting all things he had works so hard in his career for. Logic.

But the Professor was sure that he had seen a silhouette of a woman on a broom against the moonlight that night carrying his beloved child away from him, cackling. He saw it with his own eyes.

Witches were real…

Werewolves were real…

Vampires were real…

Everything that his darling Brunhilda had said was real…

And he would prove it! By God, he would prove it for her sake even if it killed him!

Logic. Logic. Logic…

 **this might be a one shot but if I do, do more it would pick up post musical**


	2. A New Comer in Town

**18-something (3 years after the musical, 10 Years from where we left off)  
Transylvania**

There was a kind of hush over the village that settled in the mist and fog heavily. It was the kind of hush that only came with bad omens and you knew better not to be in its wake. Shutters drawn tight, and mothers huddling their children to their bosoms, clutching apron strings. The wolf bays at the moon.

The wind swept of the autumn leaves in a whirlwind against the grey cobblestone and black sky laced with storm clouds….something wicked this way comes.

One lone boy who was brave, dares to creek open the heavy shutters and rest his nose against the wood to see onto the abandon square…footsteps, gentle, bare footsteps against dry dead leaves and prickly pine needles. A skirt and cloak dragging, collecting. The boy heard the mewling of the yellow-eyed feline and shut the shutters quickly as not to catch the fiendish glance.

The footsteps continued; slowly, steadily at a good pace behind the feline as to follow its stalky lead. The inn, it was leading the mysterious traveler to the inn. God help the poor old widow who had maintained a meeker existence there. The wind seemed to whistle the plight of poor Rebecca Chagal.

"Rowan, be still." Rebecca heard the voice even as whispered as it was, arming herself with a rolling pin pushing her way through the garlic latten inn toward the pasture that bordered the estate. "Rowan, please not so loud!"

Rebecca saw the silver carafe of milk glint in the moonlight as she lifted up her stout arm, it swayed under the unevenly distributed weight the feline diving with the motion and then fell leaving a small pool of pure white milk slowly soaking into the earth, the voice sounded again this time with an air of annoyance. "Rowan! Now ye really did it, ye bloody tomcat!"

It was time for Rebecca to pounce, when the stranger was crouched down quite literally making a fuss over spilled milk, asking herself. "How am I going to explain this now?" running to slender fingers along the now moist earth.

At the sudden movement of the innkeeper the traveler gasped and in one twirling movement had gotten to her feet and dodged the blow, cloak hood falling off in the meantime. Rebecca and her rival's eyes going saucer-wide in exactly the same instant. Rebecca's hand flying up to her sputtering heart with a mixture of surprise and guilt—a young woman, a beautiful young woman who couldn't be more then 20 looking just as startled as she if not more so.

"Dew and mornin, you scared the living daylights out of me!" the traveler breathed out finally, Rebecca could have said the same but it might not have sounded as lovely as the highlander saying it. The innkeeper blinked, off in the shadows the feline submerged itself as a brilliantly orange tabby and she relaxed at the color—thanking God that it wasn't black. The young woman scooped the cat up into her arms apologetically.

"You have to forgive him. He smelt the milk and wanted a dram. We've been travelin for days you see without much to eat. He is frightful hungry, I dinna think it would spill! But if ye point me towards the nearest cow I'll gladly replenish it for you."

Poor thing, she did look slightly windblown and had a hint of dark circles under her pale green eyes, and the offer was kind enough. But for one of her age, where was her traveling companion? An old maternal pull panged at the old woman's heart; her dear lost Sarah was around this girl's age if not a little younger and she'd hope if Sarah was in this situation someone would show her kindness.

"You can do it in the morning. Its too late to do anything tonight. Are you traveling with anyone?".

"No ma'am, alone." The cat mewed in protest. "Save Rowan of course."

"Do you have much further to go?"

"Konigsberg."

Rebecca winced. "My dear, you are quite the ways away from Koingsberg, do you have lodgings for the night?"

The traveler shook her head. "I was goin to find a stable or somewhere else dry, that's good enough for the like of Rowan and I." Another cringe from Rebecca; if some of the village boys found a girl; let alone, one as lovely as this sleeping in their stables unaccompanied it might end in disaster for the poor child. And then Rebecca remembered and started to chuckle.

"You are very lucky then that your furry friend brought you outside of an inn then."

The traveler blinked but then dropped her head. "That's verra kind, but we dinna have any money."

"Oh nonsense; no one has stayed at this inn in years, I welcome the company." Rebecca draped an arm around the child to keep her from straying. "You are like ice!" she gasped at the feel of the cool, ivory skin. "There is no way I'm letting you go now! You'll catch your death a cold out here. Come inside"

"Thank ye kindly."

"Whats your name lamb?" Rebecca pressed as she shuttled the girl inside. Cat following dutifully behind.

The traveler met her gaze. "Brieanna, Brieanna McDune, of the McDune Clan in Scotland." Was the answer.

Rebecca was intrigued. "Is that so? All the way from Scotland."

"Aye ma'am, tis!"

"I've never been to Scotland!"…

* * *

"Are ye cooking something?" The traveler's dark nostrils flared in the act of sniffing the stale, poignant air upon entering the inn. Rebecca's bulk seemed to glide through the dark maze blissfully unaware and or accustomed to the odor to which her new, foreign lodger was referring. She turned.

"What do you mean?" the older woman pressed almost offended, rolling pin still in hand.

Luckily the girl was smart enough to change her tone at the sight of the rolling pin despite being so very tired. "I think I smell a wee bit of garlic, that's all." That was the understatement of the ages. Smell it? She could taste it and feel it seep into her pours, all but blinded by it.

There was a sharp jab into the woman's lower abdomen as an edge of an unseen table had taken to getting into her path and taking her breath out sharply, there was no light. Rebecca was blissfully unaware of that fact too, being as she was holding the only source of light. "Dew and mornin." Came the choked out curse in a hiss, taking to rubbing the spot. "Thank God I am not with child, dinna you have any more candles then the one you're holdin?"

Rebecca thought a moment at the new concept, she had seemed to move through a sort of sonar for so many years in the evenings that the candle she was holding now seemed almost a redundant thing when she had lit it. "No." she answered simply and then walked on.

The girl named Brieanna picked up her pace just so she could stay in a semi illuminated path behind her hostess. "Forgive me for being importunate, but….why?"

"Koukol takes them."

The arch of Brieanna's eyebrow was palpable in her shift of tone. "Koukol? What kind of name is Koukol for a lad? Assumin yer talkin about a lad."

"He takes them to his Excellency, always has."

"A nobleman? I see." There was a flicker of distain in the otherwise soft voice as they were now in the main sitting room and the girl was ushering herself blindly to what she hoped was a cushioned seat. Hostess now trying to tend to the fireplace. "I dinna fancy nobles myself, they always feel entitled to one thing or another. Some of the lairds in Scotland were like that. Does not his Excellency think you might like to see too? "

The charge in the voice brought a light chuckle to Rebecca's lips. "I supposed not."

"Well I would have the mind and cheek to tell him or his bonnie lackie; Kookoo, or Kluklux or whatever his name is."

Rebecca shook her head. "One look at Koukol and I think you might lose your nerve. Tea dear?"

"Aye, thank ye."

Rebecca continued an angry fluster suddenly coming to her cheeks. "My lecherous husband certainly didn't have the gumption to stand up to anything, horny old fool!" Mrs. Chagal had a very strange mourning process when it came to old Yione Chagal. The stages normally went; denial, sadness, barter, anger and then acceptance…yet she seemed to hit sadness and then skyrocketed to anger…and stayed there.

"I always knew he would leave me for that worthless Magda…..even if it was in death." She finished with a grumble.

"I'm frightful sorry—did ye say in death?" The girl questioned with a heightened interest as a tea cup was passed to her. Rebecca quickly changed the subject—the girl had already had enough of a fright almost being bashed in the head, she didn't need to hear the story.

"Whats in Kongsberg?' Rebecca reclined back in her seat with curiosity.

The creature across from her became deadly still, and Rebecca sensed something kindred in her companied with the motions of the eyes dropping to study the pale liquid of the tea. "…Someone I lost a verra long time ago." She started, eyes never shifting in something like guilt. "Someone I acted verra selfish to, but someone I loved verra much. I dinna even know if they are livin anymore, or if I have embarked on a fools errand. I'm hopin verra much that I am wrong." She paused.

"Poor girl, you ran away from home?" the innkeeper sat up straighter, to the edge of her seat guessing that her situation was closer to her own plight than originally thought.

"Aye, at a mere age of fourteen. It was… it was a longin that drew me away, I found what I was longin for, but now I'm longin again and I need to return home."

"A great love?"

"A father's love." There was something like moisture raising the pale orbs, a knuckle went to collect the tear and then the girl regained herself and change the subject grasping the fire prod and squatting before the stone fireplace in a helpful manor, cat taking her place in the chair. "Not verra much wood here. Dinna tell me his Excellency takes your fire wood too." Brieanna challenged over her shoulder.

Rebecca sighed tiredly at the thought. "No, I just haven't gotten around to cutting more. this inn a quite the hassle to keep up alone."

"You have no one to help you?"

"The lumberjack Orin will chop it for me for a sum of money I don't have." She scuffed.

The girl sat up and put her hands on her hips seeing to be just as annoyed at the implication. "Well that's a bonnie thing indeed!" she started. "A kind lady like yerself havin to chop your own wood and no one offerin to help. And you'll forgive me for sayin; but you're not of the age to be doin such things alone." She went back to the fire haughtily. "I hate inconsiderate people!"

There was a sudden spark in the fireplace like magic, making the flames go to a normal height. The innkeeper startled and the girl sat back down moving the cat to her lap. The traveler hesitated after a due moment of silence, looking to see if the hand that had been holding the heavy rolling pin was empty.

"Ye never told me about the garlic…"

Rebecca started up in a barreling voice. "Garlic is wonderful! It does so many things! It keeps you healthy! Keeps you strong! Garlic! Garlic! Gar…lic…" she had burst into tears, violent sobs. The memories had become all too much. If there was one thing garlic couldn't do, it was suppress the pain of losing her daughter. She could understand why Sarah had run away from her buffoon of a father, but why punish mama? Mama who nursed her and changed her!

"Did I say the wrong thing?" the girl looked concernedly at her hostess, getting to her feet. Almost preferring to be hit by a rolling pin.

Rebecca blew her nose in the sleeve of her nightgown. "My daughter ran away too….and I'll never see her again or know why." She wailed

The traveler ever so gently gathered up her skirts and knelt before the older woman and looked deep into the eyes. "Maybe someday ye will. Dinna worry. Dinna be sad." She took the woman's hand and like a rush of water washing over rocks something at the girl's touch spread calm and trust over Rebecca.

* * *

It was a marvelous night for flying…. That is if you weren't Alfred Swartz and you weren't flying away from your "bite-happy" mate while trying to avoid your other not-so-welcomed love-sick mate. Biting as a form of affection between vampires Alfred's foot! It hurt if you were undead or not. There was nothing tender or affectionate about biting even if it was from Sarah's pretty red mouth—he almost was beginning to prefer Herbert's flamboyant, schoolgirl fussing over him.

He managed to land haphazardly in a tree about as effective as he had ever been as a vampire, as seen by all the various rips and tars from tree limbs in his once pristine velvet redcoat. Alfred managed to straighten himself as best he could and catch his breath. This whole ordeal had been a pain in the neck from the start…literally.

He picked the leaves from his blonde ringlets and looked upon the inn where it had all started three years ago… freezing to death…. If someone would have told him it was going to go downhill from there…he would have laughed.

Alfred felt dizzy, he could only drink blood from rats, barely even able to stomach that idea. It wasn't very substernal. To think; he could have married a nice girl in Konigsberg, ran the family library. He could be having a hot meal right now with one or two porky little babies yowling in the background and a pretty wife…not even a pretty wife but at least a sensible one like Mrs. Chagal had been, or his childhood friend Brunhilda; the professor's daughter, had she not run away…

Not that things had ended much better for her, he imagined. Or for Mr. Chagal for that matter; who had been after the buxom maid Magda for so long after he got tired of poor Mrs. Chagal…well he got what he wanted and seemed to trade one wife that was unhappy with him…for another wife who was just as unhappy with him and made him just as miserable. Tis the way of marriage.

That's not even to say what happened to the poor professor, to which he had no idea.

No one had ended up happy. Except for maybe Sarah who blissfully paraded around calling herself "The Bride of Von Krolock" without much indication that it was true especially from the Count himself. all Alfred did know was, if it was true Herbert Von Krolock would gorge himself with garlic and holy water before he ever addressed the wayward "star-child" as "Stepmother"…but what a Cinderella the young Viscount would make!

That settled it! Alfred wanted out. The Professor had said something about blood transfusions restoring Sarah; he wondered if that trick could still work for him…if only he knew where the Professor was!

"Hey ho Hey." He called out faintly, even as day was just beginning to break over the horizon and he knew he had to get back to the crypt before he became toast. He went to turn away but like an omen from Heaven, the light in the Chagal inn of the room where he and The Professor had stayed… the one that had been off for so long, the empty room illuminated suddenly with light catching Alfred's eyes.

Maybe there was hope!

* * *

*CHOP, SWOOSH! CHOP* Rebecca woke with a start to the sound below her window and toddled over from her bed to throw open the sash to the noise and a crisp, snow-blanketed day. Rebecca rubbed her sleep crusted eyes. .

The girl had little else on from what she had on the night before to brace her from the cold, the long thick brown hair now tied up in a bun crowning her head the neck, shoulders and breasts as white and pure as the snow from her vantage point with falling tendrils to contrast against high cheekbones.

The arms were slender, feminine and delicate silhouetted in the sleeves in the light reflected off the snow but they moved with great agility and force to bring down the axe and split the wood. The tabby cat off in the corner hunting some field mouse in the snow.

There was already a fairly good pile of firewood building up when Rebecca looked, as if the girl had been at the task for quite sometime, and the strokes were melodic.

Brieanna looked up and smiled at her surprised hostess. "Good Mornin Madam Rebecca!" she called up sunnily.

"Morning Ms. McDune." The hostess replied.

The girl lifted her chin letting go of the axe, the white knuckles red and frozen, a finger pointed toward the now full milk carafe. "I replenished the milk bright and early this morn for ye! You'll find breakfast on the table, I'll finish up with the firewood and will join ye momentarily."

Rebecca blinked. No one had ever made breakfast for her before… she was in a hurry to see what the girl's room looked like….cleaner then it had ever looked! In fact unless her eyes were playing tricks on her the whole inn looked as if it had been tended to!

And the breakfast was a full breakfast of eggs and hash and meat for four people! "Good God!" Rebecca thought in awe. "Had the girl gotten any sleep?"

When the door opened she expected the girl to look haggard and tired from the gesture, but instead; the girl, Brieanna looked replenished, refreshed even. She sucked in a breath as she crossed the threshold with a small basket of wood. "Oh tis a bonnie morning indeed!" she sighed setting the basket by the stove.

"Ms. McDune, did you do all this?" Rebecca questioned gesturing to….everything.

"Aye! Oh dinna look so cross with me Madam, I wanted to! from what ye were tellin me last night, you sounded like you needed some pamperin, and ye shouldna need to chop wood for the rest of the Winter…I dinna mind doing it, really! Although, my shoulders are a might bit stiff now!" she winced, throwing some more wood into the stove. "Must be me age rearing its wee, ugly head at me."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven, practically an old maid."

Rebecca Chagal would hate to think what that made her if twenty seven was "practically an old maid."

Brieanna's face suddenly grew serious as she sat across from her hostess. "Perhaps I did have an ulterior motive, after all she admitted as Rebecca took in a bite of eggs. She suddenly blurted it out. "Madam Rebecca can I stay? Just for awhile."

Rebecca nearly choked….why would anyone want to stay here? There was nothing here!

"I thought you were heading to Kongsberg!" Rebecca reminded, jumping a mile high when the tabby Rowan suddenly jumped into her lap as if to coax her and help his mistress' case.

"I was—I am!" the girl sputtered and then shrugged. "Maybe you'll be callin me a coward but I'm a little afraid of what I'll find when I go. I thought—I thought if I could distract myself here awhile longer I could…"

"Build up your nerves? I understand child." She shooed the cat off her lap.

"So what do ye think? I'm a fierce hard worker, ye wouldna have to pay me a penny, and I thought…." The girl paused before going over to one of the many strands of garlic and taking a pearly clove in her hand. "I was thinkin we could make this into ale and sell it to the local lads, it might make a profit, bring yer business back up!"

Garlic ale? It might be worth letting the girl stay just to see how such a thing could be done…she was a Scot after all and Rebecca had heard over the years through travelers that the Scottish people had a nack for ale…and it wasn't like business could decline. The whole town thought the inn was cursed anyway. Maybe it was time to let the garlic go and change….and the girl had made the inn so clean! Oh so clean! And she had a hot meal without lifting a finger!

Rebecca stood and after a moment smiled. "You can stay as long as you want Ms. Brieanna McDune!"

The girl beamed, surprising her hostess with an embrace. "Oh thank ye! You won't be regretin it I swear!"

* * *

 **A month later….**

Regret it was certainly something Rebecca did not do. The girl, Brieanna as she was becoming more commonly known was indeed an asset to the inn, very faithful and loyal to Rebecca, at times Rebecca thought she abused the girl's kindness and enthusiasm but then again… it was nice to have a hand around the inn again. Though her hand came with some queer habits…

Like the one time Rebecca had ask Brieanna to join her and see the beautiful, honey-colored moon in its fullness Brieanna seemed to shy away from even stepping out the door or going near a window, it was the only time Rebecca had known the girl to shy away from anything. "I'm sure it is a verra pretty sight. I'm going to go sweep my room." Is all Brieanna would say about full moons before locking herself away in her room with the broom. She swept her room quite often. The strange thing was…Rebecca would find the broom the next morning in the oddest places; outside, in the stable, in the kitchen by the door disregarded like a coat. And that cat was never seen anywhere without Brieanna; though it was friendly enough….or as friendly as cats normally are. And Brieanna seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of herbs…in fact, Brieanna seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of everything.

She may have sounded like a simple Scottish village girl but at times she would quote philosophers and scholars that through Rebecca for a loop. As in the time when she had first made garlic ale and manage to mask the odor of the stinking rose completely. Brieanna had tried in vain to explain to the innkeeper scientifically what she had done. She followed it up with the saying "Logic, logic, logic my dear Madam Rebecca."

That reminded the innkeeper of something but for the life of her…she couldn't remember what.

Well whatever it was that Brieanna did to make the ale, it worked. The inn suddenly became alive again and passersby would sing of its praises overseas; sailors would come and sing shanties for a paint of ale and a dance with some of the local girls. Always blistering with body heat and merriment. Rebecca reviled in it! Without her dumb husband always shutting down her ideas or Magda lacking about dreaming of a prince, she was making money hand over fist and it was wonderful.

…though sometimes Rebecca did take advantage of Brieanna's kindness...

Brieanna was not in a very good mood to begin with the inevitable day that Koukol had come to call for candles.

She had been in the village earlier to acquire some fresh fish from the monger, along with some other things that the inn might have needed. In the square the lumberjack Orin was peddling his wares to any abled bodied men who could buy and carry whole logs of wood home and it did not set well with her at all. Especially when she saw widowed mothers with their children in the back of crowds shivering, without one thought of attention. Women and families that she knew…freezing.

It didn't take her long to make her way through the crowd of men to the lumber cart. The lumberjack Orin stood with one leg propped up on one of the logs staring out into the clear sky with a piece of straw dangling from his lips. Orin was all scruff and beard with brown eyes, but young.

"Excuse me!" Brieanna had to call up several times before he actually turned his head. "Might I trouble ye for some wood?"

Orin jumped down, nearly stomping on Brieanna's toes in the process before heading toward the front of the cart. "You can pay me and your husband can retrieve it later." He spat on the ground.

Brieanna pursed her lips momentarily before following at the man's heels, Rowan in toe as always. "But ye see, I dinna have a husband to retrieve it later." She started before pointing in the crowd. "And neither does that lady there, or that lady there, and that lady there has three weeins and a husband abed with a fever."

"And?" he questioned, placing his hand on the cart and drinking her in with his eyes.

"And I was wonderin if ye might be so kind to deliver some wood to their houses since they have no means to carry it for themselves."

"It will cost extra."

"These people can barely afford wood at the rate ye have it at."

"Not my problem. If these women are widowed and do not have healthy sons to aid them or money, it is their misfortune."

Brieanna blinked as the wind blew in a chill. "But there are signs in the air that the Winter will be verra harsh this year!"

"That is their misfortune not mine!" he retorted.

The girl scoffed. "That's a fine thing comin from a man with enough hair on his face to look like he should be bayin at the moon!" she then addressed her cat preening itself at her heels with a calm arched eyebrow as the lumberjack now tended his mule. "Now theres something you dinna see every day Rowan, an ass pullin another ass in a cart! Tis a wonder."

There were snickers from onlookers hurting the lumberjack's pride, in one quick movement he pulled her semi out of view after declaring that if the girl would not hold her tongue and she wanted to pay the others dues for delivery, grabbed her in an ungentlemanly fashion and tried to force a tongued kiss down her throat to which she pushed him, to which his hand fell hard across the cheek, hard enough to snap the head to one side.

Neither did this set well with Brieanna; her fist, not a slap mind you, but a full-fledged punch to the jaw sent the lumberjack stumbling back into the crowd who gasped at the bold move. "And if ye would not had gained on me, ye wouldna had the opportunity to strike me at all, ye right bastard!" she announced.

Orin still holding his jaw spat again. "You will burn in hell for this!" he cursed.

"Maybe so." She lifted her chin

"You know what they say about unmarried maidens who cohort around with cats?"

"Aye, that they are not to be reckoned with!" she challenged undaunted.

"That there is a pyre somewhere for them to burn!"

The threat was not idle. She looked around, not one person, not even the ones she had been trying to help and advocate for had budged to her aid, they were frightened… how many other strong women had faced the same prosecution and worse because they spoke their minds or tried to protect themselves and others were afraid, and turned away.

"So be it then." she breathed meeting the gaze evenly before turning to go, touching her still burning cheek., but the worst sting of all was that in this; like with most other matters…she was completely alone.

But it was satisfying to hear the man step in mule dung a moment later, thanks to a subtle shift of the girl's fingers.

* * *

It was a long walk back over the hill to the inn as the wind blew hard against her, hugging her wrap as tight as she could manage. Rowan fighting to jump over the tall grass. At the bottom of the hill she saw a hunchback figure lingering by the front door, licking the three teeth protruding from his mouth savagely as he waited the hefty innkeepers return.

Brieanna happened to look up in her window…. Rebecca was there! In her room! Which she locked! When the innkeeper emerged with what little candles Brieanna had and passed them off to the hunchback, the girl had lost her temper completely.

The next thing anyone knew Koukol, the servant to his Excellency was face to face with the four, glistening metal prongs of a pitchfork and blazing emerald eyes. "I'll run ye through! Drop. Them. Now!" came the demand.

Koukol gulped dropping the candles and hissing, before turning back to the castle and pointing furiously to it grunting, this only made the grip on the pitchfork tighten.

"His Excellency wants them ye say!" she stated mockingly. "Tell his Excellency he can damn well have em, when he gets off his bonnie arse and ask for them himself sayin please and thank ye like a decent human being; and even after that, over my dead, cold body!" and with that Koukol got a sharp jab in the rear-end and it sent him on his way.

"Go on now! Don't ye have a bell to be ringin."

With wide eyes, Rebecca went to pick up the scattered candles, only to be stopped by the sound of the wind picking up, the sky darkening and the clad of the pitchfork falling away from Brieanna. The girl looked off darkly into space as the wind gust around them as if by the girl's own design.

"Rebecca." She started. "I respect ye highly, but dinna ever go into my room again, ye kin?" Brieanna looked at her over her shoulder; waiting for an answer, mess of brown hair strung in her face.

All Rebecca could do was nod and at her response, the wind seemed to die down. The girl entered the inn.

The innkeeper looked down the path that the displaced hunchback had toddled down toward The Castle Von Krolock and just prayed that His Excellency would not take the girl at her word too seriously.

… He did…

* * *

Alfred had somehow managed to land…or…dive bomb for lack of a better word back into the same tree he had crash landed into a few months ago when he swore he had smelt traces of the professor's blood or something similar to it on the breeze. He hadn't expected it to take him so long to sneak back. But somehow, there had not been a moment's peace for him to get away.

Sarah was going through one of her "I'm bored with Alfred now" phases and was back to planning the undead wedding to The Count, this time going as far as announcing it to more than just him… Alfred had thought that he had heard Herbert say that she was going as far as breaking into the Count's chambers to try and seduce him into marriage. And being as no one had seduced the 400 year old Count into anything he didn't want to do sense he was alive and a very young man and sex actually had that kind of effect on him…it wasn't going over well, but it did make him laugh…the first two times.

He was the seducer, not the seducee.

One would think that with Sarah distracted it would allot Alfred more freedom…one would think…

"Yooo hooo Alfred!" The airy male call carried prettily to Alfred's ears as the silvery bat with pastel wings silhouetted the sky. "Alllfred my darling, where are you hiding?"…. Herbert, Herbert for sure, it wouldn't be long now.

If he could just…just get inside the inn and talk to The Professor.

He went to make his move but a sudden, unnerving sight caught him. A tall, black cloaked figure moved silently in the masses making its way toward the welcoming lights and sounds of the inn. Alfred couldn't believe it… he had to crawl to the edge of his perch to be sure that it was, what he thought it was…which was an ultimate failure seeing as he slipped and ended up dangling from the branch like a koala bear for 2.5 seconds before dropping into a thorny shrub below. But it was exactly what he thought…

"His Excellency!"

* * *

It was always a good night when sailors came into the inn with instruments and bustling energy to play them with; as voices raised in song, and bodies in constant movement either in dancing or drinking. This night was one of those well nights where more than one ship had come into port and all the sailors were thirsty for a good time and the entire village seemed to crawl out from hiding to join in.

There was little to no moving room at the inn save for the small space that was reserved strictly for dancing, where feet thundered away and couples weaved in and out of the line either skillfully or sloppily but always with joy or without a care. No healthy, able girl was safe from being whisk away to that side of the room.

Currently the top couple was a rather slender Frenchman who had put down his accordion just long enough to entreat the pretty, barefooted Scottish maid who had been serving ale as if the inn were a tavern, to a rousing dance that involved a lot of stomping and clapping. She seemed to have the energy for it. Back to her normal mood if not better.

Rowan took his normal perch on a barrel as not to get his tail stomped on but where he could still see, and he did see…in fact he was the only one to see the dark, cloaked figure with no face slip in among them like death itself, and take a seat discreetly at the end of one of the long wooden tables unnoticed. Rowan hissed…. He did not like the way the eyes under the cloak were fixated on the flashes of the snow-white feet and ankles of his mistress gliding across the dancefloor.

Suddenly a slender, almost skeletal hand resting on the table under an aristocratic sleeve, Rowan hissed again and from across the room the stranger hissed back… danger was near.

After the dance was over, the Frenchman took to kissing the girl's hand and thanking her for the privilege, and with a merry jest asked when she was going to marry him? because he was going to be in town a few days, to which Brieanna chuckled just as light heartedly, gave a quick-witted reply and went back to Rebecca to retrieve her serving things.

"Good heavens girl." The innkeeper gasped. "Aren't you the least bit tired? You've been going all night."

Brieanna beamed, flustered. 'How can I be? Tis a full moon out tonight!" and with that headed away toward more customers… toward HIM, leaving Rebecca stumped, she thought the girl had hated full moons!

As she made her way towards the front of the inn the opacity seemed to get more and more jammed packed as more patrons filed in and out until you almost had to walk sideways to get anywhere. In addition to the jigsaw puzzle of people, the girl now had her over anxious tabby darting between her feet in warning.

The fall was inevitable, she was lucky she didn't break her ankle, and luckier still that the fall was cushioned by a lap and that said lap had strong, broad shoulders to clutch onto accompanied by quick hands to keep her from falling any further…no just straight into the lap of death. She gasped. "I am frightful sorry Sir. The inn is gettin a wee bit crowded. But I thank ye for catchin me."

She begun to regain her wits as her heart thundered from the almost accident, it happened in a blink of a second but the hands lingered on her waist just to make sure she was steady, it wasn't in a rude way, but it did last a bit long, not that she was quick to let go of the muscularly cut shoulders either.

"I'll just be gettin off your lap now." She managed hoisting herself away from her rescuer who she hadn't even looked at yet. "I'll get you some ale, on the hou—" she stopped herself catching a first glimpse of the hands that had been around her as they shrunk back at her glance. The head lowering to hide the face under the hood. But she already knew..

"Or perhaps, its not ale ye'll be wantin." She said more evenly, coolly.

"Brieanna!" Rebecca called her away suddenly and she was glad to get away from such a meeting at least for now, and something told her that wasn't the meeting that her unwelcomed visitor had in mind either.

* * *

It was later in the evening when Brieanna could finally let her hair out of its bun and cascade down her back in the moonlight as she collected the close off the line and let the air cool her sweat beaded skin. Rebecca was dead asleep from too much ale, so there was no chance of her looking out the window and seeing the maid in such a state. She welcomed the feeling of being free in the exhilarating moonlight and sang a folksong to herself lowly, as she waited.

He didn't take long. Rowan farrowed. With a smirk she unpinned another close pin without turning to acknowledge his presents. "Dinna anyone tell ye its not very polite to creep up on unsuspecting maidens in the night, your Excellency?" she chuckled. "Then again, I wasna unsuspecting was I."

"it was rather hard to acquire an audience with you any other way." Was the answer. "The candles."

"Aye, the candles." She still didn't turn, reaching for another pin. It was his turn to study her hands, their sudden change of hue to pale green, her arms also that shade.

"May I have them now?" he questioned half mockingly, his voice a mixture of darkness and silk, and danger. "Now that you have assaulted my henchman, and I have fulfilled your request to make an appearance."

It was her turn to be cocky. "I dinna hear you say please. Or did yer hunchback leave that part out?"

"Please."

She folded a sheet, tilting her head. "And… thank ye?"

"You haven't given them to me yet." He reminded, confident in the fact that he would get them.

Brieanna clicked her tongue, disregarding the folded sheet on a nearby table finally giving him the opportunity to meet her gaze, which he did evenly; no longer cloaked. Neither of them were disguised. Just ice blue eyes meeting with fiery green for the first time. It was…electric.

"I also said, over my cold, dead body…" she reminded taking a long, spindly hand to reach behind the thick brown hair and move it away from the neck with a cool air and an offering tilt. "Perhaps, ye would like to take care of that too?" she suggested, it was a test.

The Count gave a dazzling smile that made the chiseled features of his face even more defined and intriguing. "Whatever spell you have cast over your own blood to conceal its aroma from me, is very impressive. You should be pleased, Madame Witch." He commended with a low bow that was all at once disarming to the situation.

The tension of Brieanna's shoulders dropped, this was the truths she had been looking for, he wasn't going to hurt her, she wasn't going to hurt him. Her powers had no effect on him, his powers had no effect on her. the playing field was even.

"Its not a spell." She explained taking a more relaxed stance. "Its in the blood, its supplies a kind of immunity." She tilted her head again only this time it was more in mockery of a curious child.

"Ye know, I've never met a vampire before!" she stated simply.

He pursed his thin lips equally amused, and gave a nod. "I've never met a witch before." He returned. The crickets played a symphony in the night.

Brieanna gestured to the table hospitably. "Would ye like to sit a spell? I would offer ye a refreshment but I'm not sure that would be right."

He took the seat in a graceful dip. "You already offered." He reminded, looking fondly at his neighbor, he had never thought to introduce himself to his neighbors before aside from borrowing candles and stealing teenaged daughters, but he supposed this was an exception. "And your name is?"

"Where are my manors, Brieanna McDune." She sat across from him, getting herself a mug of cider.

"An unusual name Brieanna." He remarked. "Scottish?"

"True enough." She smiled. His face looked so familiar to her, and what he wasn't saying was he had the same feeling.

After a moment she spoke again. "How long have ye been dead?'

"Over 400 years." He answered.

"That would make you…"

"453 years old this November." He took pride in his age, not that anyone ever asked; in fact this was the most trivial, nonchalant conversation he had in centuries, and it was kind of nice…

"You look heartful good for yer age, though I imagine it would get fearful lonely."

And this was how they passed the evening…simply conversing over little matters, no fear, no threats, just enjoying the moonlight together.

* * *

When it was time to part for the evening The Count once more reminded the witch of the candles as more of a jest and once more she declined him only with a smile this time. To which he asked as he escorted the witch to the door of the inn.

"What kind of a world is this where one neighbor cannot borrow a cup of sugar from another?"

To which the witch turned to him laughing and replied. "But tis not a cup of sugar you're askin to borrow, its candles to which we are almost out of."

Then an idea lit her eyes as she turned around in the doorframe, near shuttering at the closeness of their two forms as his cloak seemed to swallow them whole.

"Alright." She relented. "Meet me at my window."

And just as it had been done three years ago with a boy, and a girl and a sponge; a single red, none-melting candle stick was passed through an open window, gently from cupped green hands to talon hand before they said goodnight.

A witch and a vampire. An original sin…

 **Well here it is part 2 of the Tanz Der Vampire fic**

 **Poor Alfred just can't catch a break, I kinda like their first meeting...not too OOC or sappy, I hope and I will be bring more characters in**

 **comments are always nice**


	3. Hell Breaks Loose

Sarah Chagall was just finishing her daily routine of bathing slipping her petite form into the larger scarlet robe lined with black silk. She let out a little sigh as the longer sleeves in cased her arms… the garment still smelled of the Count. Some would call it taking liberties to take someone else's robe especially if it wasn't meant to be a bath robe and turn it into a bath robe.

But in Sarah's mind sharing was caring, she shared her blood, he could share his finest evening robe and besides she was practically mistress of the Von Krolock estate, why shouldn't she wear her lord's robe?

She ran her fingers through the reddish curls looking out onto the old cemetery musing on just such thoughts. She had found freedom and bliss just like The Count had said she would… and she was fearless, her murders were becoming infamous in the village and all of Transylvania as the most gruesome and surely that must please his Excellency entirely! That his bride was rising quickly in the vampire ranks, even other vampires feared her….That Lucy Westerna of England—Lady in White had nothing on her.

She was the center of everyone's world…. But most importantly his…

She inhaled the inner scent of the garment and sighed. "It is almost like he is wrapped around me." She swooned allowed, but her swoon did not fall on deaf ears; the lovely, silvery clad, eternally young viscount was happening to cross the threshold upon that very moment; closing up the sequel to the first self-help romance book he had in disgust. He gripped the doorframe clearly annoyed. "You again." The pretty youth groaned, "How do you keep getting into my home?" he stopped abruptly, taken by a new sight. "Is that Vatti's robe?"

"Doesn't it look divine on me Norbert?"

The young viscount's frown imprinted deep lines on the otherwise pleasant face; she knew his name and he was beginning to lose his patience with this little game of her putting on such airs. She had no right to anything, no more than any other victim.

On that thought he looked at the blood stained garment disregarded for Koukol to collect and shook his head, if she kept this up she would be out of the clan without him having to do much more complaining; his father only gave so many warnings against unwelcomed feedings in the village.

Herbert crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of the porcelain tub slyly, supposing it might help to remind the girl of that fact. He took the airy scarlet tool dress in his long fingers. "It is a beautiful gown…"

Sarah cocked an eyebrow at the sudden change of tone as she piled her curls on her head. "You would know, it came from your closet." She remarked snidely and Herbert did not appreciate the implication which was going to make delivering this tid bit of news all the more satisfying. Herbert looked at his long nails. "I only hope that Maria has as much satisfaction in her gown for the midnight ball."

"Maria?" Sarah started dropping the pile of hair. "Who is Maria?"

"Oh so you don't know!" the blonde youth fained innocence. "But then again how could you? When you spent the past three balls gallivanting like a ghoul in the night. Maria is the new morsel, just as you were mon cher."

Sarah's face contorted, that wasn't true!

"Oh yes, you see dear, human blood is a delicacy we only indulge on once a year from a willing, all be it unimportant victim from the village as not to cause a ruckus with the pre Vatti's agreement." At the drop of the feminine face there was a sense of fulfillment for the blonde; he hoped it hurt, he hoped it hurt as much as it hurt him when he saw her with Alfred.

"But… he…he loves me, he marked me, I'm his bride!" she insisted.

Herbert chuckled. "Oh sweetheart, biting and marking are not the same thing! You got bitten, marking constitutes that he shares his blood with you in return. An equal give and take. Something I would have done with Alfred…had you not taken him."

"He is just waiting for the right time!" She tried desperately.

Herbert crossed to the balcony that overlooked the village and through the mist he spotted the inn and its newly lit windows and saw an opportunity for yet another jab. "It seems as if even your mother has replaced you."

At this Sarah lunged forward, claws sharp and ready.

"Enough!" the Count's voice boomed over the ensuing chaos that was about to take place. He looked coldly forward as both assumed a position that was more suitable. Then after a moment the young vampiress went to him tenderly, laying one hand upon his breast and the other upon his cheek searching for indications of feelings. He was dead to the touch, as cold as his skin; most notably, civil enough not to push the touch away.

"Remember…our eternity began that night." She reminded him with glistening eyes. finally he looked at her, incasing her wrist gently with a skeletal hand. His glance was soft, but not with any base human emotion she hoped for, it was pity.

"My eternity begun a long time ago." He admitted hollowly before stepping away, this made Sarah scamper down the hall stifling muffled sobs. The Count closed his eyes a moment. He did not hate the girl; in truth he felt sorry, but the love she sought with him was misguided, for she did not even know the man behind the title, behind the façade of "freedom" and glory… how could she? How could anyone?

Freedom… what freedom?

He finally opened his eyes to his son and addressed him sternly. "Why must you create fresh hell with her every time you meet?"

Herbert shrugged. "Its fun."

The Count gave a look of displeasure. "Its not helpful." A pause as he recounted the sight of his fine robe on the girl. "So that's why its always wet when I put it on of late…."

"She'll get over this little crush she has on you." Herbert assured.

"As they all do…" The Count crossed the room to a chair and sat resting a long finger under the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. His son could tell that the thoughts were bleak whatever they were. Perhaps, he had overheard the conversation about marking and had been swept back into the memory of the three times he had attempted to mark and in blind passion ended in murder. The Countess Breda Von Krolock, Alicia the Pastor's Daughter and the young page of Napoleon… all of them he had loved, all of them he had lost before he had ever got a chance to give back what he had taken.

Herbert inched over to the side of the chair trying to think of a way to change his father's mood. "And how was the morsel this evening? How did it go?" he made his voice a singsong.

The Count's face remained still. "It went as well as any other prostitute peddling their wares." He said bluntly about the situation taking the viscount by surprise. "Maria is a caricature of every other girl that has graced the midnight ball for centuries; unsatisfied in life looking for freedom, seduced by my looks and vague promises of release and pleasure for a small price, and once it is over they will realize the emptiness of what has transpired. Just as Sarah will realize it one day, when she sees the man behind the fantasy is not as dark and contently free as he pretends."

Herbert winced, for as many hunts as there had been he had never once heard his father compare the act to prostitution. He wasn't wrong about the "special guest" being a certain archetype and fitting in a certain mold but if he fed these girls' fantasies, it didn't mean he was whoring himself to them. Herbert had certainly never thought of it that way.

"These girls want to dive into the melancholy I wish to escape from." His eyes then traveled to the red candle mounted in the most beautiful holder they had, set on display, ordered not to be touched. His father had developed a sort of fascination with that object that Herbert didn't understand and the Count didn't let on too. Herbert wasn't even sure if the Count knew himself.

"Vatti what is really bothering you?" The blonde finally asked. "Is it the Professor? Has he come back as we feared and teamed with Orin the woodcutter?" his father had never told him what had happened when he went to investigate the familiar scent of the old coot on the wind, he only came back with that stupid, red candle.

The older noble finally lifted his chin with something kindred to interest lighting the blue orbs. His Transylvanian accent that he had acquired over the years…that had once been Austrian, was thick and rich. "The opportunity…fell into my lap…. To meet the suspected person, I can tell you rest assuredly that it is not Professor Wolfgang Abronsius but someone kindred to him, and I am to believe that said party will never be in league with the superstitious Orin. But I will watch them closely, in case. My first and for most duty is to protect our family."

Vague, Herbert knew when his father was vague that there was certainly much more to it and his father didn't wish him to pry. Had this apparent kin of their enemy been of even the slightest threat he would have gotten a vivid account, but seeing as his father didn't even let on to a gender one way or another it was clear…Vatti had a new play thing that he was keeping secret like an overzealous little boy. He didn't want to share.

"That's all you're going to tell me?!" Herbert whined none the less, the hunchbacked servant entering and leaving a red bottle of liquid and a fine crystal goblet by the Count's chair before departing, spitting at Herbert because…well… Koukol just didn't like anybody..

"That's all I'm going to tell you." His father affirmed, taking a goblet in his hand.

With a stomp of a foot and a small pout the young viscount headed in the same direction as the vampiress had headed, but at the door; whether to satisfy his own son's curiosity or it was just a thought spoken allowed, it was overheard by Herbert.

"She has his eyes. if not in color, then certainly in shape."

* * *

On that rare, gray day when the sun was hidden by the clouds, Sarah landed gracefully on the roof of her childhood home and the snow crunched deafly under the red velvet boots. With a panicked step her eyes went searching for her Mama. Replaced? Her mother would never replace her! she had been the gleam in her mother's eye since she was born. No, her mother was still mourning her loss; that blonde fop had to be telling lies. He had too!

She scanned the grounds from wooden fence post to wooden fence post and there along the fence nearest to the North on her hands and knees was the culprit Herbert had been referring.

There was an immediate cold pang of hatred where the vampiress' heart once palpitated and that hatred spread like ice all the way to her curling fingertips. It was the same emotion that had ignited in her mother before her when her father was first caught ogling the taught, round breasts of their young maid Magda. An emotion that could only be descripted as hatred toward "the other woman".

With a snarl, the young Chagal swooped down to get a better look at her enemy. She cocked her head at the simple appearance. The girl wasn't nearly as splendid as Sarah; where Sarah had a girlish youth about her full cheeks, where the other had an elongated face of a woman. Where Sarah had fine twisting reddish curls the other had near straight dirt colored hair. Even in death Sarah had maintained a certain, pink hue to her skin. Oh yes, this peasant girl paled certainly in comparison to Sarah, the only thing remarkable about this girl to Sarah was how dimwitted she was to plant weeds by the fence, not even flowers weeds.

The young vampires bared her fangs ready to pounce on this auspicious newcomer, but the sound of a sheet being fanned out by the door caught the girl's attention. It was her Mama. Full and pink-faced and healthy. It was the first time Sarah had seen her poor mother since she had turned. There was a pang of longing and humanity suddenly at the sight of her mother. Her mother had been a good mother; always taking Sarah's side, always tucking her in, always making sure she had the last of everything. Sarah had never even taken her mother into mind when she ran away. Or to ever come back again to ease the heartache.

"Brieanna, luncheon will be in 20 minutes dear, wash and come in." her mother looked for confirmation from the other girl.

"Aye, right away Madam Rebecca."

Even her voice made Sarah's skin crawl, but then she gave another examining look to her mother. Her mother looked well, rested by any account something she had never looked while she was alive. Sarah cast another look to her enemy calculatingly. If her mother was well taken care of; perhaps , the girl would serve the vampires better alive then dead. But she still had to know her place…

Perhaps Sarah could frighten the girl into submission. But she had to start small. Then the opportunity presented itself perfectly, with all eight legs.

In the dirt by the girl's hand a black spider treaded quickly to which the Scottish maid jumped and waved her hand to shoo it away. "Back ye little beastie!"

Oh this was too glorious, Sarah had never been afraid of spiders.

Sarah giggled with pure joy as she swooped away into the sky with her plan, blissfully unaware of the witch's familiar that had been perched on the branch just behind her swooshing its tail furiously….or of the eyes of her ever watchful sire..

* * *

When the bedroom door was finally opened to signify that it was at last the hour for rest Rowan was two steps ahead of his lagging mistress as he sprung towards the bed and settled in almost immediately. Rowan had, had a long day of chasing field mice and skulking around for any fish related scraps in the inn's dining room.

The door shut along with a heavy tired sigh. "Dew and mornin." She crossed the room pulling at the apron strings. "I hope we dinna have another day like today." She explained to the preening tabby. "Twill do me in."

It had been a particularly hard day, the foot traffic at the inn had been as bad as ever and there were too many eyes to use magic to help with the great amount of chores that the inn acquired too which they seemed to double today. Brieanna turned over her hands and looked at the irritated red skin of the knuckles glazed over with cuts, bug-bites and bruises. Uprooting the thorny bush to plant an herb garden in the far right of the estate had not exactly been pleasant after tussling with a stain in the floor that only Rebecca seemed to see. Brieanna hissed at the raw, dull pain.

She went to her dresser for the things to mix up a quick ointment to sooth the cuts and then would be back to the task of trying to figure out what had happened to Rebecca's daughter, much less her own father; not that—that task was easier then any manual labor of late.

There had been something blocking that element of her magic, blurring any chance of solving either of those mysteries from her vision. A profound force fighting against her every time she tried, prohibiting her from seeing…that power had been so strong before! It was draining, exhausting to try and overcome. And whoever was so opposed, had to be just as tired from the battle, because it was a hell of a fight…a hell of a fight she was yet to overcome.

But she would keep fighting whatever it was, because along with keeping her from seeing the events of what had been, the force was also taking away things that had once been solely hers. For example, it was getting harder and harder to recall certain things like her father's voice….the color of his eyes… things that she thought she would never lose.

But perhaps she couldn't attribute it all to the force…..perhaps it had just been too many years gone by.

Brieanna put on her nightgown letting the ointment settle and cool. However, when she turned she noticed something strange. The book she had left on her night stand closed, was now sprawled open face down and there was something moving underneath it. Surely, Rebecca wouldn't make that mistake again…breaking into her room.

She went slowly to turn over the book and let out an unexpected shriek, sent into the night air through the opened window. Had she not been so tired, so unsuspecting she might have gotten rid of them with a simple levitation spell instead of jumping on the bed like a small girl and clutching the bed post for dear life.

But as of now three giant tarantulas going in three different directions were just too much,

"DEW AND MORNIN!"

* * *

The scream did not fall upon deaf ears, from his standard perch at the peak of the inn's roof, in fact it had sent a strange serge of panic through the stalking figure. Shape and painful.

Without any thought, he dove through the window. No there was a thought…the girl…the witch…Brieanna was hurt and it was because of his creature.

He didn't know why he called her name so frantically when he finally got to his feet, eyes darting around for a trace of the woman he had only met once, but had been drawn to watching many times, to see if she would be a threat to his family. So why now was he so concerned? "Brieanna? Brieanna?! Where are you? Answer me!"

"I'm here!" came the tremulous answer from behind him. He turned and gawked, nothing seemed to be a miss but by the expression of the girl's face; the soft parted lips and the pale wide eyes… and then there was a flush of embarrassment after the shock had worn off. "I'm here." She repeated more evenly.

He took a few steps toward the bed even more curious as to what was going on than before.

"Did you scream?" he asked now almost directly below her seeing as she was still standing on the bed.

"Aye."

"Just now?"

"Aye!" she seemed incredulous to offer him any additional information, all be it a little short as this situation was far more compromising then when first they met as she did not expect a visit this time and certainly not in her bedchamber, in a nightgown. She clung to the bedpost now more for a sense of modesty than anything.

He arched an eyebrow just as dubiously. "Why?"

She was hesitant knowing the mockery that would probably follow, but knowing that the answer of "Oh nothin" would only cause more agitation and awkwardness to situation, she extended her index finger toward the vanity. "The wee beasties gave me a fright, tis all."

His Excellency just stood there casting a glimpse between the two things; the three abnormally big spiders and the witch, whose powers he had seen demonstrated as far beyond such a fear, found himself musing. This was a common fear among mortal women, but a witch. "Spiders?" he stated with an elegant gesture to the vanity. "You're afraid of spiders?" there was a hint of a chuckle.

Brieanna was slightly annoyed, in the second The Count had took to look she managed to grab her orange shawl at the corner of the bed and pin it to her chest. "Aye, I have arachnophobia, I dinna see why that's funny!" she charged. "Many witches have different fears!"

He remained even. "I just was not expecting—"

"No more than I was expectin a man to be in my room this night in the wee small hours!"

"You're in an inn and you screamed, certainly you must have had some indication that someone was to come in." he smirked, smugly.

"Aye, but through the winda?!" she met his challenge. "I dinna think so."

…she had a point… he walked over to the vanity and looked at the creatures appraisingly before her reflection in the round mirror caught his attention, she was at the edge of the bed now, hands fallen softly to behind her back like a child that has been told to look but don't touch, head pushed forward with the innocent thought that, just because he wasn't facing her it meant he wasn't looking at her.

But he was examining her, as she was examining him. He spoke again with the same civility they had known in their first meeting. "Would you like me to get rid of them for you Brieanna?' there was a softness, a genuineness that he had almost forgotten he had.

She met it evenly, with a strange venerability she had longed repressed. "If ye dinna mind." It was almost a whisper.

Slowly she watched as the Count laid his hand out as a platform for the creatures to crawl on. She noted that his fingers were as intricate and long as the eight legs as he carefully escorted each to the sill to set them free, Brienna doing the last one herself. When it was done, he turned to her gaze meeting gaze and there; between the two acclaimed "monsters" had been more decency and humanity than either had known in a long time.

He walked back over to the side of the bed and offered a hand up to her. "It is safe now." He teased, but it was soft and quiet.

"Thank ye." She took the offering and allowed herself to be helped down, despite not needing it. "I appreciate it, truly."

Much to the Count's surprise the witch wasn't too quick to let go of his hand but it wasn't like when his victims' touched him and had a desire to cling, it was examining, calculatingly. He was unsure of such a forward touch but allowed for his hand to be raised. "Its so verra thin." She mused before finally meeting his glance, eyes glimmering with thought. "Defined. Do ye mind if I try somethin?" she asked pulling him back toward the bed, slowly sitting herself down and turning the hand over to face palm up. Her eyes fixated on the lines.

"I was never able to do this verra well in the coven; in fact, I was the weakest of the clan, but I think ye might be an exception. Thick handed people; Scotts, verra hard to get a good readin."

The immediate pull was to go back to the task he had set himself fourth to do in courting the lovely, dull shepherdess Maria to get her pretty heart fluttering in her breast and then brood until daybreak but the witch's grip on his hand though light was strong, impetuous.

There was a time once when he was impetuous, when he would have sought out such sorcery at a village festival or pageant as a young viscount with a hunger for sport instead of blood. Many a gypsy had read his noble palm as a youth and gave him pleasing premonitions all of which; he was sure now, was untrue. But none of them as vigorous as the young witch before him, he eventually let himself dip to sit beside her on the bed; she offered him a smile, a flash of the pale green eyes.

With her other hand she begun pointing out and explaining the meaning and significance of each line; tripping up a few times demonstrating how she could have been known as the weakest one in this element of magic but she was able to laugh at herself for it. "Its not verra fundamental ye see, as long as you have good showmanship anyone can pull it off. Not many witches do palm readins anymore because of its spike in popularity among the gypsy folk durin the 1400s, but many of the older witches still try and teach it to the youngins for sport and a sense of culture and all." She was totally engulfed, content in talking about magic and explaining it, as if it was the only thing that mattered. "This line here nearest yer thumb…its yer mound of Venus, it means ye liked to chase the lasses quite a bit when ye were alive, its faded more recently."

"I confess, during my first season there was a series of escapades at the Italian court May 1687 where I was known as a rapscallion." The Count admitted evenly.

"I imagine, there was a great deal more than that!" she remarked. "Even now."

He laughed and then continued. "That was the year of Contessa Isabelle Parizo, a very friendly woman as was her train. She had a fine taste for wine and everything fashionable…of course, everything fashionable then seems an antique now." He remarked, remembering, dreaming of the vibrant colors and warm Tuscany sun on his skin. And then the memory turned to ash again.

"What a fine thing." She said calling him back to reality. He pursed his lips, what 'fine' thing could there be?

"To live, and see evolutions of things…things only people dream of and read about."

"Only by night." He reminded.

"That's more than what others can say."

They locked eyes again, there was a truth in what both were saying and they both realized the others truth to its fullest extent. Yes, eternal life was a curse but from a historical, cultural and logical standpoint…there could still be beauty in it.

"…will ye tell me more?" she finally requested through the stillness.

He did. He told her stories, stories that his son had stopped asking to hear because they had been told to death, stories that the young vampires were to self-absorbed in their own afterlives to hear, stories of himself. and she listened with wild intrigue, true intrigue. The same intrigue that had once met in a professor at seeing a library full of books.

Out of all the people in the village she seemed to be the most contented and soothed, not hungering for freedom…because she was free. And her calm, her contentedness seemed to spread to him. He was at ease, completely at ease. lolled by the finger dragging gently along his palm, captured by the voice, entranced by stolen, stormy glances of her eyes. It unnerved him.

And she never spoke in sense of future premonitions, it was past tense…how he was, things he had forgotten.

"I…must depart." He said quickly, gathering himself.

"So sudden?"

"I should not have stayed as long as I have."

"I'm fearful glad ye did, this is the nicest evenin I've had in…I dinna know how long."

He was silent, his back turned to her severing the former bond. The coldness ion his manor was sudden, but he did hear the bare footsteps inching closer to him again. He didn't turn. "Will ye at least shake my hand before you leave?" the request of the witch was quiet, her arm out stretched. "I'd like to think of us as friends."

Foolish child, she did not know what she was asking.

He only gave the pale hand a glance before taking off again into the night

* * *

 **Three weeks later…**

Attempt number four for Alfred being able to get into the inn and see if it really was the Professor was about as fruitful as the last three attempts if not a little less…

This time he had decided to avoid the tree all together, since nothing good ever seemed to come from landing in the tree by the inn; though pleasantly enough the thorny bush that had left him picking thorns out of his skin for days had been uprooted and replace with a sprouting herb garden.

Sarah was occupied with stalking EVERY poor girl in Transylvania named Maria, Herbert was occupied with organizing themes and colors schemes for the upcoming ball and His Excellency was doing…. Whatever His Excellency tended to do… of late Herbert mentioned that his father seemed terribly distracted.

Alfred crept up to the window of the inn and rubbed the snow away from the pane to get a better look inside. Huddled around the table was an eclectic ground of villagers that seemed to be murmuring concerns back and forth.

"Maybe the professor has rallied the village to band together." Alfred thought.

Well someone had certainly caused a stir. Alfred heard the voices carried through the walls.

"Where does Transylvania draw the line?" One of the villagers banged his fists against the table before standing. He had a full beard, honestly he looked more animal then human.

"First the wolves, then the vampires, now witches? I say it will not stand!"

"My daughter came home after visiting this inn and she is beginning to read books!" one worried mother chimed.

"And my daughter sings songs in a foreign tongue!"

"And my son…."

The accusation of "terrible" things seemed to swelter much to Alfred's amazement; to him, what they were speaking of was progress and education, nothing too sinister in that, he had learned most of those things in his family's library as a boy, the rest from the Professor. Then things took a turn.

"She summons the children to her to do the devil's work!"

"And the killings of the wolves has spiked since her arrival!"

"We must do something!"

Alfred had tried to listen to more, tried to see the man with the beard that had first spoken to see if he could possibly be in league with the Professor since their ideals seemed to run along the same lines, but somewhere in the interim the man had disappeared!

Alfred had scanned the room left and right. Just then he saw old Rebecca Chagal wielding her standard rolling pin high above her stout head like a saber. "Shut your mouths of such talk! I will not hear of Orin's mutinous, superstitious jibber-jabber against my maid, in MY inn!" the innkeeper served a few hard whacks to the riffraff. "Out, out all of you! Get out!"

Alfred winced having almost known the privilege of Madame Chagal's wrath first hand.

He would have listened to more except the growls deriving from his stomach had become so loud that it almost seemed like they were coming from beside him. He placed his hand upon his abdomen annoyed. "Shush, you're starting to sound like a hungry wolf!"

*grrrowl, SNAP, SNAP*

His stomach had certainly never made THAT sound before…. The sound of jaws snapping, nor had it produced the flicks of warm saliva on his hand….

Alfred turned his head slowly and was met with the yellow eyes, raised hackles and dripping fangs of the brown wolf next to him. He gulped and tried a disarming wave and smile. "Nice wolf, good wolf…."

It didn't work, both took off at a sprint as Alfred dived towards the tree he had first tried to avoid, finding a haven there. Just out of the reach of the snapping jaws.

"Great! Just great! Just once I would like to go out and have something not wanting to bite me!..."

* * *

Maria Albescu looked off into the direction of the ever forbidden castle dreamily as her flock pushed their way around her. she was to terribly bored, so terribly bored of sheep and being expected to marry a poor farmer someday, grow old and die. A golden ringlet of hers caught in the breeze and rubbed tenderly against her rutty cheek like a phantom caress, she felt her ocean orbs flutter shut as the secret voice of the wind called to her as it always did; darkly passionate.

"Yes my dearest life. fear me not, for I am a Shepard myself humbled to serve and tend my flock, humbled if you would join me, join my flock and the freedom you seek shall be yours…with many more splendors. Give yourself over to me…"

Her eyes fluttered shut at the lilt, her pale fingers running secretly along the buttons of her blouse. "Oh yes…" she whispered wantonly over the noise of her sheep. "Yes, I will give myself over to you at the ball, I—"

She was interrupted by the up roaring sound of the local village children screaming and laughing, and all the other sounds that children make at play led by the incomparable inn maid who was even now teaching them a call and response song in her Scottish tongue on the way to the well.

Maria sighed, she hated for that angel voice and phantom touches to be so rudely interrupted. When the maiden reached the stony well she turned to her followers. "Alright, there is yer song for today weeins, as promised. Run along now so that yer mammies and daddies dinna worry and I can fetch some water for Madam Rebecca."

They groaned in protest but eventually dispersed except for the curious little boy who thought he was well hidden.

"Goodday Miss Albescu!" the maid greeted pumping the water.

"Ms. McDune." Maria answered civilly enough, still awaiting for that perfect voice to come back and take her away.

"Is there somethin interestin yer lookin at off in the clouds?" the maid stepped closer to look over the blonde's shoulder but saw nothing but a crumbling castle.

"…freedom…"

At this the Scottish maid shrugged seeing some herbs that she did not think to plant or even grew in the area sprouting by the well, she knelt down to pick them with a sigh. "I dinna know, tis nice here. Quiet and peaceful like. Find a good man, settle down, havin weeins around…that sounds better to me than any so called freedom ye can find at a castle." She trailed off with her own longing giving way in her tone. "To be in one place and know yer completely safe. That is freedom to me"

Maria scoffed; what could this foreigner know of such boring things…but then again what could the sheep tender know of the awful, gruesome images that sometimes plagued Brieanna's mind of highland men burning and torturing innocent women; her friends, her family at the stake for witchcraft, the horrible screams. Her own clan, her mother…. She was the only one to get away from the witch hunts but it was always a lingering threat no matter where she went, and for that reason there could never be such things as "settlin down", "a lovin husband", or "children"…not for women like her, and it almost caused her physical pain. Many witches had tried for such things, but all in vain.

Brieanna looked at Maria finally, the back of her golden curls, her dreamy face and there was envy. "I'd give anything to have what ye can have." She thought.

The little boy who had thought he was so well hidden suddenly jumped forward at the feel of something warm and fuzzy darting between his feet, vibrating with purring sounds.

"Dinna think that I dinna see you there Jonas." The witch said going back to picking herbs. Jonas stepped forward guiltily at being caught and removed his hat. "Miss Brieanna ma'am." He managed.

The woman managed her way back to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, for as many months as she had been in Transylvania the boy had been her willing pupil in reading in their spare time and had been making process in leaps and bounds, he had the potential to be a great mind she could see.

"Why have ye stopped comin to me in the past week?" she asked. "I hope ye aren't abandonin yer studies. You are fearful good at it ye know."

In truth; the abandonment of his education or additional education seeing as the village did have a schoolmaster….as dry as toast… was a product of his parents. The Scottish maid just had a way of teaching that was…well…interesting. She could pull out books from the folds of her gown on any subject, as if by magic at any occasion.

She wove such intricate and charming tales, even about history…which wasn't entirely her doing alone…

"My father and brother say you're a witch." Jonas finally blurted.

Brieanna cocked her head and thought a moment trying not to let it show…it was happening already… she shook it off.

"Well Jonas." She started merrily placing an arm on her student's shoulder as she led him back toward the village. "I kin that well enough. There are a great deal worse things to be called."

"Are you?" Jonas asked with wide eyes.

"I am what I am." She explained evenly. "A great poet once said, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I am Brieanna, no matter what else I may be called; the same person, same mind, same heart. I like to sing, and dance and speak my mind, read books and know things, plant herbs. I may seem strange to others but I willna change myself to please anyone, and neither should anyone else."

It wouldn't have done any good denying it or directly confirming it. But nonetheless it was the truth whether the village liked it or not this was who she was. she turned to the boy and took him by both shoulders and kneeling met his eyes, hoping that her message would impart on him. "I hope ye can kin what I'm sayin here Jonas."

The little boy looked into her face for a long time searching for the monster that his family had warned him against, but all he saw was a woman with a saddened tone that let on that she would all too soon have to depart.

"I understand." He confirmed. His tutor hugged him to her quickly, tightly. She had made a family here, a life here with Rebecca and the children at the inn, made a life with…with… Oh God! She had never meant to.

"good boy." Some tears rolled down her cheeks. She pulled away. "Run along now to lunch." She pushed him along.

"Miss Brieanna?" he called.

"Aye lad?"

"Is it true? Do witches eat small children?"

She had to laugh, it was such a common belief especially among children, no wonder there was such a pandemic of fear at the mention of witch. She smiled. "I have known a great many witch to be fierce when hungry, but seldom resort to cannibalism of weeins." To Brieanna's surprise the boy looked slightly disappointed.

She paused and then added with a jest to fuel imagination that he met a witch and lived. "Only the bad children, Jonas."

And with this, there was a wild sort of excitement and bewilderment in the boy's eyes as he ran off to tell the tale. The same excitement that had met the same in her as a child when a white rose was left on her nightstand by a false Count.

Brieanna gave one last look to see what in the world the sheep tender had been looking at off inn la-la land all this time. It was only when a black refined bat screeched at her from a nearby tree that she understood.

"Ah I see." She snickered. "The sacrificial lamb." The metaphor was all too rich to ignore; after these many months he had taught her what she needed to know.

She turned away addressing the bat. "Dinna mind me, I'll leave ye to it then. Until tonight, the usual spot your Excellency."

When she returned to the inn to prepare for that night, the villagers had already taken the liberty to hammer in a wooden sign at the far right side of the inn; where her herb garden was; warning death to all those suspected to be a witch or be in league with witchcraft. A noose nailed to the post.

Despite all Rebecca's protests…

Brieanna didn't have much time.

Even to say goodbye

* * *

"I have to leave Agustine." That's what she had said. "I came to say goodbye."

The Count mused on these words on his balcony when he returned from the decaying fence somewhere in the forest that was the midway point between the inn and the castle, or what had been more recently in the past year and affectionately known as "the usual spot".

He had a crystal goblet filled with crimson liquid resting in one hand. Elk's blood…. You see, Alfred had not been too far off in feeding on animal's blood, it was just the animals Alfred targeted had tend to run too small. Usually it was wolves' blood. Transylvania, particularly this village had-had a horrid wolf problem and in exchange for a peaceful residency in his castle The Count had made an agreement to feed upon the wolves instead of the villagers so many years ago with the exception of one night a year, the ball.

It was one of Koukol's duties to hunt the elk and wolves and keep the castle stocked.

Tonight the Count had been tempted to break his own rule, to grab some poor mortal and simply drown himself in the sweet metallic fluid, the way any other man would drown himself in wine at such news…she was leaving.

How could either of them let it go this far?

Under no circumstances would he ever see the witch again… that is what he had been telling himself for nearly a year now and each time had been a lie.

It had all started after the spiders, he was wooing the lovely Maria under a tree when he happened to overhear one of the witch's so called "history lessons" and it was lackluster to say the very least. Bare bone facts and dates with no real substance. He tried to ignore it; God, how he tried. But he had been alive in that period…he knew things crucial things that she was leaving out!

Why should it matter? Why should it matter if she was giving dates and basic information found in books, that's all any schoolmaster would give the children of the village….well anyway, it didn't concern him! Nothing the girl did should concern him! Nothing that the mortals did concerned him because he was unwelcomed.

So…why did it keep him up during the daytime, kept him from rest, made him almost angry to think about? Because he was a noble, yes; that had to be it. He was a noble and in this fact there was a certain order of things that he was used to. The way of a strict, perfectionist. All accounts, of anything…he thought…should be detailed, accurate correct. After all, if the girl was going to waste her time on this she may as well do it right. He would tutor her himself if he had to. Get the annoyance out of his mind. So he could go back to the way he was and let the witch alone again.

…but in all truth, he had seen her come alive that night when she listened to his stories, the way no other person had….he had made a single person's eyes become full of life, lighten with life after so many eyes had lost their light due to his presence. A secret part of him wanted to see that light again… be the cause of it.

The night he had presented her with the proposition he had been strict, direct, told her outright. "I do not like the way you teach the village children."

And Brieanna had met him with an even directness, hands upon hips. "Aye, is that so? Do ye plan to do somethin about it or just stand there and criticize?"

She was willing, seeing that their last conversation had perhaps helped determined this bargain of "I will teach you, then you teach them."

Brieanna had been a keen and avid listener, hanging upon his every word as if it were gospel, sometimes he would remark upon an event that would strike a cord with her as something her father had read to her as a child. And this would kindle some of the most intricate, intriguing conversations they had ever had.

Other times that kind of knowledge led to hellish disagreements and it had not been easy, lord it had not been easy. They both had their own ideas. The scholar in her kicking in, more likely to believe books, or more accurately things that her father had told her over him.

"Dew and morning yer gettin on my nerves!"

"And you're not getting on mine?" was often how it would go.

There had been quarrels over certain dates, over her stubbornness, over his arrogance; neither keen to be the first to admit they were wrong. There had been times when he would rummage through every single book in his library to find written proof that he was right about a date they had been arguing about. Herbert one time almost getting pegged in a down pour of books, unsure why his father had a sudden desire to rip apart their library.

But in the end they would always meet in the spot in the forest even if they were not sure that the other would be there to meet them.

The Count took another sip of the liquid and winced. "It should have ended there." He thought running a long finger along the lip of the glass.

But it didn't, not for either of them. He thought briefly of the professor, of the insane likenesses and differences between him and the girl. He thought of how the man when he had visited his castle had no regard for danger despite warnings, despite all threats, he only saw the pursuit of knowledge. Jumping around insanely explaining the migrations of the bat. For such a wise man, he had behaved very stupidly…

The girl had the same disregard of warnings, especially from him. But her pursuit beyond historical knowledge whether or not intentional was one of closeness. Despite every warning he gave for her to simply allow him to remained closed off, she ignored, she pursued in the gentlest way. In a way that disarmed him completely; by letting him come around in his own time. By being absolutely patient, only nudging him softly every so often, despite how much he snarled and hissed. For such a foolish woman, she behaved wisely.

That was the difference between men and women…. Dead or alive. When the Count had threatened the professor that his punishment would be to be the vampires companion and have theological discussion over many, MANY winters. There had been no danger in that threat for the Count. Two men discussing science posed no danger because there was no more than that. With women there was an imminent danger. Brieanna was a creature of feeling!

"Do ye think you are the only one to look into the abyss of darkness and had a wantin to jump into it?" that's what she had asked him one night under a full moon, when her skin was green and he had been pushed too far with questions about the Countess, when he had tried to scare such prying into his soul away by pinning her to a tree and threatening to tear her in two. She had only met his eyes, and saw the pain as kindred to her own, the pulse of her neck fluttering delicately beneath his fingers like a butterfly, calm as she asked that question. "Nothin ye can do will scare me away, Agustine. We are the same. We are in the same hellish cycle. I am as dark as ye are my love."

That was when they knew. In the mortal world there are normally admissions, profound, lengthy professions of love but they needed it not. It ran deeper than that, deeper than words. They never said it to each other for fear it might cheapen the emotion. But they both had the understanding.

She had to leave… she had to find her father… that old coot she had sainted in her mind. He never should have given her that white Austrian rose.

"Chapter 23; how to recognize a person in love!" his son came prancing in, obviously at the end of his investigations, he hadn't been too discreet about spying on his rendezvouses with Brieanna. He didn't say anything as the lace of his son's sleeve flounced in his face at the scolding fingers…obviously Herbert had missed the most recent meeting!

"Naughty Vatti! I was wondering what could give you such mood swings! Of course if you 'dinna' wish to talk about it!" Herbert giggled, the mockery of his lover's accent felt like a physical dagger in the Count's still heart. "don't feel guilty Vatti everyone has an accent they go weak at the knees for…mine personally is French. I rather like her, she has…spunk! Though green is not my favorite color…That race you had the other night of bat verses broom—and she called you out of shape! Hilarious! Of course I can't wait to meet her! When do I get to meet her exactly?"

"You don't."

"Pardon?"

"She's leaving."

"Leaving you? The hussy!" quick to jump to conclusions

"NO! not leaving me." she had been painfully specific to make that a point. "A promise to another calls her away. She says it is too dangerous for Rebecca if she stays, besides she feels that she has delayed looking for her father in Konigsberg long enough."

Herbert's blue eyes flashed. "Konigsberg?! You can't mean….does she know?"

"No. You really think she be going to Konigsberg if she knew?" he barked. "and I cannot bring myself to tell her."

"So you would let her go?"

Before another word could be said a scream rippled through the night, looking out on the square, there was an ever growing fire, a mob….they had cornered her!

"Brieanna! NO!"

* * *

Rowan had went missing sometime during her departure with the Count, it was the hardest thing she had ever endured, even with leaving her father, watching her clan burn, ever being an outcast, this was the thing to tare her heart out! She loved him, even as a girl she had loved only the one man; or at least the idea of him to start with..

She was lucky, oh so very lucky to find this kind of love even for in the long run of eternity what would only be a blink of an eye. So many people had so much less and that's what she had told him when she had tried to put a joyous spin on her departure. The goodness that would linger.

The brief moment of happiness that had been set aside to make everything else bearable.

There was every reason stacked against her in staying; the inn was up and running and the money was coming in enough for Rebecca to hire a maid or two, and her father was still out there somewhere alive, or as far as her magic would show her. She had to find him she just had to.

That is, after she found her cat. Something must have caught his eye in the bending grass and he had scampered off to chase it. That wasn't strange…no, the strange part was that he hadn't returned.

Perhaps Rebecca had called him in for some milk. Rebecca…now there was going to be another hard goodbye…

She rounded the corner into the in rubbing the tears from her eyes. it was black inside and still…terribly still.

"Madam Rebecca?" she called. "Rowan?"

BANG the latch on the door had slammed shut and the fire in the fireplace lit. she was surrounded, one of the villagers had Madam Chagal gagged with a knife to her throat, another had thrown a moving screeching sack into a tall barrel of ale….it was Rowan! They were drowning Rowan! She lunged forward with a cry but was then scolded with a torch flame burning her wrist.

"Brieanna McDune!" a burly voice trumpeted as Orin the woodcutter seemed to land in front of her like a hunting animal. "You are hereby charged as a witch and the willful murder of the boy Jonas Weaver!"

To her horror she then saw the parents clutching the mangled body of her pupil.

"I dinna! I would never hurt Jonas!" she protested. She searched, searched for one person's belief in her.

"Hang her – burn her – kill her!"

Madam Rebecca breaking free managed to punch her captor and reach across for the old broom before tossing it to her maid. "Run girl! Run!"

In one swift motion she had caught the broom and managed enough time to fling the dripping sack out of the barrel unsure of its fate from there. A move that would all and all cost her, her escape.

Managing to escape the crowded inn, the moonlight hit her pale skin and tinged it a shade that was no longer deniable. The pale green eyes wide with horror; more villagers, more villagers then she had ever seen before gained on her before she could fly away.

She tried everything to escape.

They had strung her up in the middle of the square, everyone, throwing hay and other things on the pyre to make the flames go advanced, she went crying, screaming, kicking as they yelled obscenities at her, wanting her to burn, wanting her to die.

Rebecca was so grief stricken, being held back that she swore she must have seen the face of her own daughter flashing in the crowd…but….that was impossible!

And there was Orin the woodcutter with a wolfish smile…getting exactly what he wanted.

After so much struggling the witch had went completely limp and silent… oh so silent, the smoke hovering in a black cloud above, the flames crackled with a demonic satisfaction as it reached the pretty bare feet and lit in embers upon her skirt.

Out of the night the creature howled, tarring through the air with such a penetrating force, its great wings beating the air. It landed at 8 feet tall, sleek and black as night next to the pyre. Red eyes! Its fangs and claws dripping, gleaming, it gave a step forward and another awful cry looking as if it could breathe fire, warning everyone off.

With one motion of its giant talons the ropes were effortlessly sliced and the witch gathered up like a child into its arms, looking so small…so dead.

The hell beast…. For no other name could define it, took off again with its crumpled prize in its hands. Held there almost delicately as the village was left in horrified shambles. Scattering to the wind.

* * *

Rebecca looked….there it was again….her Sarah's face, her Sarah's face in the crowd! Watching the hell beast depart with one hand out stretched dejectedly. And then it was gone…. No, no she had to see, Rebecca had to see if it was really her! she gathered her skirts and pushed into the crowd….

* * *

Herbert met his father at the balcony, asking over and over again in a panic.

"Is she dead? Is she dead?"

All he knew was the weight of her in his arms once he had returned to normal form, was precious… so very precious to him, and tragic and sad, and beautiful. It was the weight of what he loved, of another thing he had come to cherish turned to ash. Another thing that fate had not wanted him to have. She looked so much like an angel… an angel held by a demon.

The gentle hand that had once cupped his cheek, dangling as if abandon by the fiery soul he had once seen dancing freely. The lips that had cast spells just by speaking, the ones that he had never dared to taint with a kiss, unmoving.

Was she dead?

He did not know…

* * *

 **Halfway point!** i **know this seems like it moves fast but I'm writing it at the pace that a musical would go, so imagine this being like the end of act one.** Yeah **this is going to be a short story. I know I probably should have built up Brieanna and the Count's relationship with a lot of scenes and blah blah blah this big built up that proves that it was an intellectual and emotional connection instead of a typical vampire thing but I thought I'd try and get that across with simple backstory narrative... so hopefully I didn't muck it up too much and make it too cheesy and sappy. But then again after watching Fearless Vampire Killers cheesy might not be that far off...i dunno hopefully someone else besides me doesn't hate the paring.**

 **I really like writing Herbert's dialog, I think I did pretty okay with him.**

 **Sarah was a bit more of a challenge, many people interpret her in different ways, the same way they interpret Christine Daae. I don't hate Sarah, I personally view her as a girl who doesn't really know all the facts or thinks things through which in turn makes her not really know what she wants kinda like with any young girl, as long as its the next best thing. While I don't ship The Count/Sarah I didn't want to butcher her character either. And let's face it when it comes to jealousy...girls are mean.**

 **Poor Alfred... you know if he ever finds the professor and meets** backup **with Brie, some serious stuff is going to go down.**

 **Next part is in the castle, that means more focus on** cannon **characters! Yay!**

 **As for the hell beast, literally stolen from Van Helsing and Bran Stoker's Dracula!**

 **Reviews are love**


	4. Bad Moon Rising

Magda waited patiently or rather, emphatically with her fingers drumming against the table as she waited for her husband to do his husbandly duties and actually provide for her by hunting! Now that's not to say that she hadn't been smart and caught herself a fine stag to dine on hours before, quite simply because like most women she knew if she would have to wait for her husband….she would undoubtedly starve to death….or redeath. And it wasn't because he was a bad hunter like that young lad. Oh no, Yoine was lazy, stupid and had a wondering eye. The very definition of "husband".

That was why she made him hunt, to keep him busy.

You see, while the thrill and lust of being a newborn vampire had filled her with longings, she had still wanted to be an "honest woman" and made him marry her—or as far as vampires could wed before anything more could happen. And it was bliss, until the sex wore off- even in death the desire for sex fades quicker for women than men especially Yoine….unless they feed on human blood. Then Magda got headaches, frequently….then they were just stuck, married. Slowly starting to cringe at the very sound of each other's voice as timed passed.

And in he comes.

You would have thought that if Sarah was the "chosen mate" as she insisted she was, they shouldn't be living in an abandoned shack neighboring Transylvania's resident insane asylum. But here they were worse off than they were at the inn.

"Well?" Magda started.

Yoine grunted sitting on the wooden bench in the center of the shack to pull his soggy boots off of his tired feet. "Well what?" he responded manically.

Magda did her best to repress the urge to choke him with her bare hands not that it would have done much good.

"Where's dinner Yoine?!" the redhead demanded. Her husband put his hands up in defense as he slung the good sized hare on the table, already half drained and cold. "There! There you go, oy my poor feet!" he grabbed at the throbbing skin.

Magda gave the meal an examining look. "That's it?" she questioned, throwing a hand to gesture to the measly meal. "Out for hours and THIS is what you manage to bring home? And you couldn't even manage to wait and dine with me?"

"It was the best I could do!" he defended.

"You could do better if you didn't spend your time ogling farmers' daughter while they undress!" she snapped. Yoine realized that this perhaps was right but he was no longer ogling for breasts and blood along but maybe someone young enough to have not seen him get abused by his last wife and immediately after marriage follow in that example because they could. At times he was beginning to believe that Rebecca was the lesser of two evils… at least Rebecca had been stout and easier to get away from.

Now he had Magda until the end of time, and all he could do was pray that would come quickly.

"I caught a stag today-"

"Shut up you goat." He murmured under his breath.

"What did you say?!"

"YOU DON'T NEED TO GLOAT!"

Sarah could hear the arguing from a mile away and gave her gray-blue eyes a roll; Magda was an intelligent woman as far as Sarah had been concerned. They're relationship while they were living were not exactly kindred spirits bur rather like ships passing in the night. In Sarah, Magda at 31 had seen traces of the girl she had been; young, hopeful and sheltered. In Magda, at age 18 Sarah saw what she might become if she didn't do something, gipped and somehow still waiting for life to start, working for a man like her father of all people!

This had allotted a strange sort of giving and takings between the two since Magda had a key to Sarah's room and Sarah had shown her kindness to obtain such as privilege.

Lately, Sarah was seeing a different side to Magda as well as a different side to marriage. Marriage as an act of vengeance? That could serve as useful. As well as her father's dull brain. She would never admit it but as much as she loved her father, she always knew her dear mama could do better, so having Magda as a stepmother had nearly been a relief to leave her mother open to someone better.

On that same token; her father had lived by a doubled edged standard, that Sarah now saw in her whirlwind of undead teenaged emotions, the heart break of seeing her Count woo one trollop and rescue another, could also work to her advantage.

Her papa had taken no issue sullying his own marriage vows and bed, but at even the slightest ideal of the corruption of his daughter…well! That was a different story. That and a few well placed tears, and he would take action, or at least appeals to the nobleman's sense of honor.

She waited a moment more with deep breathes before bursting into the door and going, crying into her father's arms; interrupting a question of why he did not simply take victims from the asylum. Sarah berried her head into his chest, sobbing.

"Oh Papa, papa he has ill used me!" she started clutching her father's coat. "He has wronged me!"

Yoine pulled her away from him with a sickening feeling of dread at the tear stained faced of his baby and angel. "Who my little kitten? Who has done this thing?" he rubbed her face. It was Magda's turn to roll her eyes….Sarah, ever the actress.

"The Count!" she cried. "Ever since the ball he spends his nights…ravishing me relentlessly. With no plans of marriage." She falls to her knees. "Oh papa I implore you my honor, my reputation is at stake. I would have never lie with him or given my blood if not for false promises! Oh papa you must defend me you must!"

It was enough…enough to get the ball rolling. Her father fumed and blistered. Kissing her tears away and helping her back up, quick to take his angel at her word. 'This will not stand!" he roared, grabbing his boots again . "He will make an honest woman of you yet!"

Magda had to laugh, what a charade; a brilliant performance by the girl but a charade all the same. Sarah had never been bedded least of all by the Count, Magda could tell by seeing many other girls who had actually been done wrong in the way she was suggesting. And going to Yoine for help….

"I will see him at once!"

"And do what? Boarded him up in a room until he agrees to marry Sarah? Forget it! He'll eat you alive!" was Magda's jab. "It would take a convent to make an honest woman of that one!"

Despite the glares, Yione Chagal took off into the night on a mission, murmuring curses about women in general. Flying past the asylum where often the screams and ravings of the residing lunatics and madmen drifting down hauntingly, awfully.

But there had been one imprisoned man who did not scream or rave. The most insane and broken of them all. Broken into silence, broken into frailty. He had seen the vampiric father take off toward the moon through the bars of his cell and yearned for something almost unnamable…to be found….for something he had lost…for logic.

It was only logical that Rebecca Chagal go back into the inn grab a torch and more durable wrap to set off into the forest again. How hard could it be? It seemed that everyone else she had cared for had done it already. Besides, there was nothing else to loose; Sarah was gone, Brieanna was gone…but there was a chance, a chance that both girls were alive! She had seen Sarah's face! She swore she had seen Sarah's face! And on the other account if Brieanna had survived the burning by some miracle; the hell beast that had taken her did not look as if it wanted to hurt her; in fact, there had been something mournful in the eyes.

Perhaps one girl would lead to the other.

So Rebecca had armed herself with a cross, a make shift stake and a strand of garlic that had not yet been made into ale by the witch and set off into the cold darkness. Fearless. What thing would dare cross her in this determined state? Hell hath no fury like a woman! Better still, Hell hath no fury like a mother!

It somewhere in the woods where she came across the mongrel who had started this whole ugly business with the peaceful witch. Among the black trees whose limbs were reminiscent of horrible limbs, reaching out into the sky.

Orin was smiling. Rebecca posted herself behind a tree in the circular clearing and grimaced, feeling the weight of her make shift rolling-pin carved at the end into a point in both hands. Coming into her bed room, gagging her, having his goons hold a knife to her throat…one good crack to that skull of his, or perhaps two given its thickness.

He was laughing. Why was he laughing? Why did the red flames of the small orange campfire against the azure sky, make him look so…demonic? Rebecca then noticed that the flames had ben tinged with an additional hue of red and she saw the discarded shirt of the man…blood. It was covered in blood.

The innkeeper was about to make her move when there was a crack like a snap of a limb and then a blur of black zooming across her eyes, and the young woodsman was pinned by the neck in the grasp of a hideous claw. Fangs dripping venom inches away from the bearded-face.

"It was a mistake to go after the girl." The hell beast snarled before flinging the man a yard across the forest, slamming into a tree with an impact that had to at least do unspeakable damage to the spine before hitting the ground.

Orin yelped like a wounded animal before he rebounded, laughing again as the hell beast closed the distance with two beats of the ginormous black wings. "It was never the girl I was after, Your Excellency." Orin remarked staggering to his feet. "She was just a pawn in my little game, all be it a good one, to get to the prize." He paused. "I have to admit, I had wondered what I would have to do to get an audience with you – get you to show your true self to the people. who would have thought the burning of a witch…the burning of your mate."

The hell beast threw the man again with a back handed stroke and Rebecca winced this time…Orin's awful laugh becoming more and more like a howl. He threw out his arms triumphantly. "I honestly didn't think that the tart was a witch! But the fact that I killed that boy…and it turned out she was, made it all the more…believable. Your little green whore proved quite useful."

"Do not dare disgrace her memory!" he went to make another move but was cut short by a hard snapping and the sharp clamping down of several teeth into the black bicep of the hell beast sending it staggering backward. "Yeah… that would be a mistake." The woodcutter warned with a cocky twinge of the lips, looking at his dirty nails.

Rebecca suddenly heard the soften crunch of several paws in the snow, growling and snapping, wolves! A pack of grey-white wolves were closing in on the scene of Orin and the hell beast. It was clear to Rebecca now….Transylvania, not exactly the best place to raise a family. Settings for horror novels perhaps, but families and lone old ladies with rolling pins no.

"You see Graf Von Krolock me and my kind have a bone to pick with you and your kind. Too long to keep peace with the villagers you have fed upon the wolves. Killing us in great hordes, scores and scores over the centuries. WELL I SAY ENOUGH!"

…that would explain the bug up his ass… the fact that he had a tail.

The rest of the pack seemed to howl in approval. The hell beast, despite being out numbered lunged forth again as his enemy took his true form to jump out of the way. Other members of the pack taking to clawing and biting the creature in the leaders stead.

"Tisk, tisk. Oh no my friend a battle now would not serve either of us any good. You see, its almost dawn." Orin pointed to the glowing horizon with an arrogant knowledge that both of them would be rendered powerless at the first rays. The pack begun to disperse.

"Besides, I leave your death to the villagers. Unless you think you can continue leading a peaceful existence in that castle of yours after that display in the square…mmm mmm they fear too much what they don't understand and they certainly won't understand you! Good luck being hunted."

And with that, the werewolf made his exit running, baying and bounding along the mountain side, relishing the last traces of moonlight.

Rebecca watched the hell beast stand for a moment; perhaps as perplexed as she was, contemplating. What was it to do now? It seemed to give a longing look toward the spot where the sun would soon be, before shaking its mass head and taking off in the direction of The Castle Von Krolock.

As for the innkeeper there was only one thing for her to do…

Follow it

And pray that it lead to one of the two girls.

"Come on Vatti." The viscount mused anxiously gripping the railing of the guest bedroom balcony where he had been stuck playing nurse maid to a comatose witch that had almost been witch-ala-crispy. But now the first rays of light were threatening to peak over the horizon and his father had been away for far too long and Herbert was beginning to worry. By any account he, himself would have to get to the crypt soon if he was going to have to conduct a search party the next night. Herbert bit his lip. He should have gone with him…

Herbert looked back at his charge, still out cold. He had spent most of the time checking for a pulse every five or so minutes…he abhorred her nails. Dirty and chipped, and all and all an eye sore to the room. He wasn't doing anything, she obviously wasn't doing anything and her hand to say the least was still. So he passed the time that way, careful not to spill nail-solution on the bed as to not have Koukol murder him, engaged in one-sided chit chat about gossip, and fashion and boy problems which; all and all had condensed into "Alfred problems". It had been nice doing someone else's nails and having someone listen even if said person had no choice. It was still bonding, right?

And the way he saw it, he had helped dress her in that sweet, gossamer empire-waist nightgown which was like dressing an octopus, seen her naked; a privilege he was sure his father would have rather partaken in were he not a gentleman. and therefore no subject was off limits now.

He gave a quick glimpse to the hall before a familiar voice called fatherly death threats up to the balcony about his daughter's so-called "honor". The young viscount wondering out farther to glance down his nose at the former innkeeper who was shouting something about crucifixes and sausages, tromping around the snow like a great buffoon.

"So, the little Prima Donna has resorted to this?" Herbert mused. "Impressive; tactless, but impressive."

This move in Herbert's mind had shown that Sarah had the gumption, or at least the theatrical skills to rival the not-so-great Italian soprano torturing audiences at the Paris Opera House, that La Carlotta woman he had heard about in passing. Now there was a spectacle he would pay good money to see; diva verses diva.

In the distance; the hunchback servant could be seen lighting the two torches outside of the Von Krolock vault as a last warning. "Oh Vatti, hurry…"

Herbert turned to wind his way through the castle and to check on his charge one last time before turning the task over to Koukol.

Bed? Check. Candles? Check. Witch?...

Witch?

Oh God! He had only turned his back for a second and he hadn't gone THAT far! How could Vatti's little vixen get out of the room without him hearing? Oh yeah, witch!

He sincerely hoped that this one was smarter and more grateful then Sarah, to go back into the village after Vatti had nearly risked his life to rescue her.

"Kleine Hexe? You-whoo, kleine Hexe where are you?!" Herbert called and it echoed through the halls.

When he did find her, he had found the other thing he had planned on looking for. Vatti was home! he was going to scold Vatti for being late and ask him why in the world he had used the front door, but then stopped himself. The way they were looking at each other. He hadn't expected her to be alive… she hadn't expected to ever see him again. The gaze was so intense it was as if no one else were in the room, or that it even would matter if there was.

Every so often Herbert could glimpse just how old his father was in glimpses of frailty, of weakness that he normally did well to hide but Herbert could see it. His father often did not wish to hunt, or spur about the village and ravel in frivolity like Sarah and the other younglings, he had already done that. Now, he simply wished to be old the privilege that death wouldn't allow. He had a chair by the fire that was his favorite spot, where he often took the books that he had been too busy to read in life or the first excitement of afterlife, but so often Herbert would catch him not reading at all but staring at the armchair next to him, trying to mold another being from shadows, sometimes, even his father would place a book on the opposite chair and wait in hopes for the one who would never read it, reading together in blissful silence but a soft touching of hands across the armrest to indicate that someone was there beside him.

Or he would wonder the castle from room to empty room and just look inside and study what had always been there, again searching the shadows. He would often terry most at one room in particular; what had been Herbert's own nursery. That sight to Herbert had been the most heartbreaking of all. His father just standing in the middle of the nursery, reaching a decaying hand down into a cradle where a babe should be. he had wanted so desperately to be surrounded by children; Herbert, was only supposed to be the first of many Krolock infants to grace that crib. Scores of grandchildren surrounding his death bed. Not that Herbert's tastes would have allotted for grandchildren…

It wasn't age that made his father old, not the centuries that had passed, it was the loneliness that aged him so.

He had been expecting to lose this one too. But now that they were face to face; Herbert marked that fragility and unpreparedness racking his father's form. He was shaking. The girl walked towards him without stretched arms, slowly closing the space between them, a look of concern on her face at his torn sleeve.

His father took one step toward what he believed to be a vision and collapsed at the girl's feet much like an infant still learning to walk, planting a kiss to the hem of her gown overcome with unfathomable joy—she was alive.

Lightly, she asked cupping a hand under his chin, ever so tenderly lifting his heavenward. "Are ye that disappointed to see me?'

"Far from it. Far from it, mein Brieanna."

They lingered for a moment just so; a man knelt before his love, a woman gazing upon her rescuer. Completely in love with the sight of each other.

He then caught glimpse of his son and gave a nod to say that he was alright He managed being helped back up to his feet. "Come quickly, both of you; we haven't much time and I need to speak to both of you."

The girl had accompanied them to the crypt, Herbert took noticed that there had been no further touching between the two, no embrace, no kiss just a boring, respectable distance. Vatti…so by the book. So by the book that it seemed almost like a fear to touch more than decorum.

They lingered outside the crypt awhile for the girl to look at the names inscribed there "Graf Agustine J. Von Krolock" he wondered if the girl knew what his father's middle name was. it was a stupid thing to be curious about.

Herbert watched as the witch and his father sat upon the lid of the coffin side by side but facing each other as Brieanna had unhooked his sleeve and went about healing the puncture wounds in the wrist, making dead skin reappear where there had been black holes, no blood as usual.

"I knew that Orin was a right bayin bastard from the verra first time I met him." She remarked to his father's recount of the encounter. A billion thoughts were racing through her mind now.

"So what do we do Vatti?" Herbert had been resting up against his own coffin waiting for the hunchback servant to remove the lid per the bedtime ritual. This had been the very thing his father had been trying to avoid, beyond the wolves, a peasant uprising…above all, putting Herbert in danger. Herbert was and always had been first priority in The Count's sights. And he was willing to go to all measures, even drastic ones to protect.

Herbert had bared witness to that first hand by what had happened, three years ago. Alfred had been sparred due to "having such an exceptionally cute butt" but the elder man…. The Count had taken no expense to his punishment for holding a stake to his son; unfathomable length for torture both mental and physical. Even going as far as to pry into the old coot's mind to find something of equal value to threaten and destroy….well, he had found that equal. A child for a child.

Well here was that imbursement now gentle as a lamb before him, no sign of a death pursuit, and from what Herbert could see the girl was either blissfully tolerant, or completely unsuspecting.

"I should have just taken care of him when I had the chance!"

There went the first theory…

It was his father's turn to speak again. "It will do us no good to take the battle to them, it will give them too much of an advantage. We must postpone the ball and keep our feedings to a bare minimum, any additional killings would cause too much of a stir. Perhaps if things are quiet awhile the villagers will not act."

Herbert knew what this meant, total lockdown. He hated the thought. Herbert had not been as secluded as his father had wished to be. He had often frequented neighboring villages to partake in mortal activities such as gambling and parties, occasionally houses of ill-repute if a young man under the employment there could offer him quarters; though not since he had met the young university student had that activity enthralled him. Now there would be none of it for God only knows how long!

They had been on lockdown once before thanks to a certain French coquette named Nannette LeRouse and her ex Grande Armée lover Armand-Louie Paroe. Paroe's fiancé had ended up stranded at the castle and falling in love with its resident broody master who happened to return her affections at the time and surprise-surprise ending up missing the event that would have made her Mrs. Napoleon's page. And another surprise came when little Paroe gathered up some of his old comrades to storm the castle. It ended in tragedy of course, which was rather sad because Herbert rather liked Nannette far better than he had liked the Pastor's Daughter centuries before.

Koukol had come in and opened the coffin and Herbert lowered himself in thinking; there had to be away to distract his father so that he could at least go out and see Alfred. But how?

"I'm fearful sorry about all this." Brieanna said softly from where she stood as the Count stood above her in his crypt. "If I wouldna have stayed I wouldna have put you or your son in danger." She looked away. "Death and despair follow me wherever I tread."

The Count reached down a skeletal hand not quite touching the girl's cheek, but wanting too. "A fact to which you are my likeness." He assured. "We shall just have to face it together."

Herbert sat up slightly, they were going to kiss goodnight soon, right? After all Koukol was already snorting and motioning for the girl to get out for him to lock up the crypt.

"We shall speak more tomorrow."

"Aye,… we shall." She gave him a longing look, knowing well that he had a sort of advertiement to unnecessary displays of affection. "Goodnight"

 _-That's it?-_ Herbert tapped in to his father's mind - _you're not going to kiss the girl? All that trouble and you're not going to claim your hero's kiss?—_

 _-shush—_ was the rebuttal. He had no privacy from his son even in his mind _–you read too many romance novels-_

There was Herbert's answer, a brief game of matchmaker and his father would be distracted. With a brief gust of wind the mausoleum doors shut prematurely before the girl could exit much to the hunchback's displeasure on the other side.

Now they would just have to go with it…

"Come Brieanna, lay upon my breast." That's what he had said to her when he had summoned her to him in his mind. She was hesitant, staring at closed mausoleum doors. She could easily open them again, easily with a spell. She was so very tired still and shaken from the events past, she still had her own wounds to see to and her mind was racing… that's why he had called to her this way, so that his voice could somehow ease the seas of her mind and for no other reason….well, maybe to spare romantic teasing from his son. Out of respect he had never spoken to her telepathically before, but in this moment there was an urgency to sooth, to comfort, to be near, and she allowed for the invasion. She welcomed it.

"Come, lay with me."

She went to him then as she had wanted to, as she had always wanted to.

She had never liked confined spaces, it made her feel caged and at first there had been a battle of Claustrophobia when the stone lid had rolled over the box and yet still it was the least thing on her jumbled mind, all the more reason to allow him inside of it. It was the purest form of surrender a witch could give to another being, access to every corner of her mind and he used it sweetly, not in a complete hypnosis just enough to comb through her memories and surface the most pleasant ones to bring her a sense of peace.

In addition she projected them through her fingertips in a misty light providing a sort of illumination in the coffin. Her head lazily resting upon the all too silent chest. This was the first time they had ever been so near to each other. The shape, the warmth of her body, she laid above him on her side, brown tresses just under his chin…

Graf Von Krolock had expected her most pleasant memories to be shrouded childhood memories of her father, or perhaps he did his best to just avoid those memories to avoid guilt, or maybe it was her own doing, a slight resistance to see them herself. As if she had equal telepathic ability she answered him, sleepily almost clutching him lightly closer. "My childhood wasna a verra happy one." She shut her eyes then. She opened them again a focus on the mist and let out a small laugh as the scene combed moors in Scotland as green as emeralds and rich as velvet, birds singing and soaring in a champagne colored sky laced with golden clouds.

"My teenage years in Glocca Morra…now there was a bonnie time. Thats me there, at 16, the wee brunette to the far right."

"I see." He paused wrapping a ringlet about his finger watching, a small coven of aspiring witches crossing the moors sporting with each other, laughing. "My darling, you are such a beauty. Even then. You are likely to make me weep." He inhaled her scent of wildness and lavender, counting her heartbeats as they rung through his body like the toll of a bell. Like it was his own.

"Nay." She sighed. "Scotland. Scotland was the beauty likely to make ye weep, there isna a prettier place in the world, sept maybe here in your arms…"

She had almost forgotten that there had been a life before this, a happy one.


End file.
